


Windows in the Sky

by Nathanson



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Intrigue, Memory Loss, Mystery, Reunions, Romance, Shop Owner AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathanson/pseuds/Nathanson
Summary: Eighteen months ago, Leopold Fitz woke up in a strange hospital with no memories past the moment he received his SHIELD Academy acceptance letter.Luckily, the kind and beautiful Dr Simmons is there to help him.Chapter 10:His and Jemma’s rules dated back to their teens and ranged from the ingenious yet simple original rule of no waking up the other before 6am (unless they had a really, really excellent idea) to the great crumbs-on-the-sofa clause made when renting their first apartment. In more recent years, they'd included some less practical resolutions, his favourite of which being the ‘save time and water by showering together’ motion passed in the summer of 2016. This new rule was promising.
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Comments: 69
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

It had been raining heavily earlier in the day, but now the sun was beating down on the cobbled street where Fitz kept his shop, so he set the door ajar to let in the warmth and the pleasant, earthy ozone scent of the drying pavement.

He was deep into errant computer code with the radio on for company, so her voice gave him a start.

“Hi, Fitz.”

“Doctor Simmons!” he almost squeaked, and felt himself immediately begin to blush. Why was it that he couldn’t even see her without getting flustered? Yes, she was pretty and funny and clever and generally a delight, but so were lots of people, and he didn’t dissolve into an awkward mess in front of them … usually. He scratched at the back of his neck and coughed before continuing.

“Haven’t seen you in a while. Computer problems?”

“No, thank goodness, I’ve got my life’s work saved on my old laptop.” Fitz thought, knowing Jemma, that her work was likely backed up on multiple devices and probably filed as a hard copy too, covered in detailed notes, multi-coloured highlighter marks and those little sticky tabs. She was stalling.

He watched, curious and irresistibly endeared, as she stepped from one foot to the other, her left hand clutching her right arm anxiously, “I had a favour to ask of you, actually.”

“Oh?” he shifted as Jemma moved to lean on the top of the counter. Her gaze was fixed slightly over his shoulder.

“It’s a rather _big_ favour, so please don’t feel obligated – I mean, you certainly don’t _have_ to, but I wondered if, well, you see, maybe you could – "

“-Simmons,” he half laughed, “with all the help you’ve given me I owe you about six dozen big favours, _at least_. What do you need?”

He tried to meet her eye, but she was so restless, her gaze now roaming over the half a dozen unfinished designs strewn across the bench behind the counter. She stared absently before focusing in on an annotation of a potential heat scanner he’d been playing around with. She bit her lip, breathing in deeply, before looking up to finally give him one of her true, bright, blush-inducing smiles.

“Oh Fitz, really! I was just doing my job.” he quirked an eyebrow sceptically. “Well yes, sandwiches and Doctor Who DVDS aren’t technically in my remit as a physician, but then you were a model patient.”

Fitz snorted. Jemma was being incredibly generous; when he’d woken up in a strange hospital bed, 18 months earlier, with no memory of how he’d got there – or in fact _anything_ from just shy of his sixteenth birthday – he had definitely not been a model patient. Quite the opposite.

But Doctor Simmons had stuck to him like glue, visiting him every single day, breezing over every fit of frustration, pointed jibe or poisonous sulk with (what at first had been infuriating) kindness and patience. She was by his side for every test, every appointment and the hours of physical therapy sessions he needed for his inexplicably shaky left hand. She stayed with him almost every night after her shift had ended watching films, eating dinner and presenting him with careful dossiers filled with fifteen-years-worth of a life he could not remember living.

In short, she’d saved his life. And she had encouraged him, gently at first then with firm positivity and fistfuls of real estate brochures to start a new one: his shop, FZZZT, for gadgets, gizmos and computer repair.

“I was going to be an engineer,” he’d grouched at that time, leafing through photos of various shop fronts, “I have a PhD from MIT, I was accepted into SHIELD Academy.”

“I know,” Simmons said softly, “but there isn’t a SHIELD Academy, not anymore.” She’d smiled, almost wistfully, “And this could be good for you. Great, even. Besides, the steps you take don’t need to be big- "

“-they just need to take you in the right direction. Yes, Simmons, I know your catchphrases by now. You should think about putting that one on a t-shirt.”

And he had put it on a t-shirt, a pale blue one ordered from a little shop in Glasgow and gift wrapped as carefully as he could manage with his still-shaking hand. He had spent a long time deciding what to put on the note, drafting and re-drafting before simply writing:

_Simmons,_

_Thank you for helping me take my first steps._

  * _Fitz_



She’d laughed and laughed when she unwrapped it and hugged him tightly when she read the note, enveloping him in a warm lavender scent that tugged at something he couldn’t quite define. He doubted she’d ever worn the shirt, but she immediately pinned the note up in her office, just above her computer, so it was almost always in her eyeline.

The day he’d given it to her was their last official appointment, his mum waiting outside to take him home in their old Volvo – somehow still hanging on after nearly 20 years – clutching his (meagre) bag of personal belongings and his discharge papers. It had been almost a year since then, and though Jemma popped into the shop from time to time and occasionally forwarded him Doctor Who memes, he sometimes found himself wishing he was back in hospital, seeing her day after day, thinking of new ways to make her laugh.

But now she was here, and she wanted a favour – a big one – maybe even one that would require them to spend time together, like before.

“As a model patient,” she continued carefully, ignoring his disbelieving snort, “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind helping me. I’ve started a PhD in Psychology, and I want to write my thesis on the psychology of memory.”

“ _Another_ PhD?” Fitz wrinkled his nose, “What will that make you, Doctor Doctor _Doctor_ Simmons?”

Jemma quirked her lips, “It’s good to have hobbies. And you’re glossing over the most pertinent information. I’m writing a thesis on the nature of memory, and I’d like to include a chapter on you.”

“Oh.” Fitz felt something knot in his stomach. It wasn’t that he was necessarily against the idea, he did owe Simmons, and working on the chapter would certainly mean spending time with her again. But it had been painful, trying over and over to restore his memory, and it had taken a lot to accept that those years were gone, wiped from his hard drive.

What’s more, as draining as it had been for him, it had at times seemed even worse for Jemma. On multiple occasions he had been sure she was close to tears during his initial sessions, and after one particularly gruelling appointment he had overheard one nurse telling the others that Doctor Simmons was sobbing in the bathroom. He’d chalked it up to her being such a dedicated doctor, but he was unwilling to put her in that position again.

Simmons could obviously sense his hesitation. “I shouldn’t have asked.” She said quickly, stepping away from the counter once more, “I’m so sorry. I just thought, well, I suppose I hoped, that we got on, before, when you were recovering, and it’d be _nice_ to work with someone I have first-hand experience treating. And that I like. As a person.”

“I’d love to.” Fitz found himself saying, firmly. Jemma beamed.

“Oh really? Are you sure? I know how hard it was for you to go through all that, I wouldn’t put you under undue stress but it really is such a fascinating case and – "

“-and I’ve already agreed. Yes, Simmons, of course I will.”

For a moment they just smiled at each other, warm and understanding, but Jemma’s phone suddenly buzzed, pulling her out of the moment to reach into her pocket.

“Oh, I should probably call them.” She murmured, brow furrowed. Sighing, she placed her mobile back in her pocket, tucking a wispy hair behind her ear as she looked up at Fitz. “But we could start this week, maybe, if you’re free? I could come by tomorrow with some lunch?”

“By lunch do you mean – "

“I will be providing sandwiches, yes.” Jemma’s nose scrunched when she was amused. It was ridiculously adorable.

“Well yeah then, tomorrow’s perfect.” Fitz grinned, “Do you need me to bring anything? I’ve still got all my file notes and everything.”

“Oh no don’t worry, the first session should just be a preliminary chat, to go over all the details. And to catch-up of course. We never finished our argument about the _Toy Story_ franchise.”

“They should have stopped at three.” Fitz groused, “And it wasn’t an argument, thank you, it was a spirited debate.”

“We got to find out what happened to Bo Peep – "

“The ending of three was _perfect,_ it’d gone full circle, there was no need to tack on another and it was so overly sentimental and gushy and – "

“- as if you weren’t tearing up when Buzz said goodbye. And it had Keanu Reeves in it!”

“Oh, not Keanu Reeves again, he’s not the be all and end all of good cinema Simmons, _John Wick 3_ was a complete shambles, I don’t know _what_ they were thinking – "

“Shambles is a bit much. It was resolving his story, expanding the world at that scale was a feat of –“ Jemma’s phone buzzed again, three times in quick session. She bit her lip, smiling ruefully, “Okay. We can finish this argument tomorrow.”

“Spirited debate.”

“Spirited debate, then. I’ll stop by about one?”

“It’s a date.” Fitz said, then sputtered, “I mean, not a _date_ obviously, no idea why I said … we’ll work on your paper, that’s all.” Jemma’s nose wrinkled adorably once more.

“I’ll see you then. Bye, Fitz.”

“Yep. Right. See you.”

She headed to the door then paused and turned back to wave, her fingers wriggling. He quickly waved back, perhaps a tad overly enthusiastically. Her phone buzzed again as she left, playing over what he could have sworn was a delighted snicker.

Once Jemma was out of sight, Fitz let his head thunk to his desk and released a mildly mortified groan. A _date_ he’d said. It’s a _date._

He had, obviously, spent an absurd amount of time thinking about possible dates with Doctor Doctor (soon to be) Doctor Jemma Simmons. When you spend six months nearly non-stop with an incredibly accomplished, witty, beautiful woman, it’s hard not to. He’d pictured trips to the botanical gardens where she could talk him through all the flora and fauna, tea and cake in his favourite hidden away café, day trips to the local loch.

He’d slowly reach for her hand as they watched the sunset, easing them closer together. He’d turn to her and their eyes would meet, before his flicked down to the rose blush curve of her obscenely perfect lips. He’d lean in and then – and then…

And here lay the root of the problem. Theoretically, once he was discharged from Jemma’s care, there had been no reason for him not to at least _try_ and summon up the courage to ask her out. But then what?

He must have at least been on a date with someone in his missing fifteen years, but he had no way of knowing who, when, how or why. Amidst the terror of waking up to discover he had lost nearly half his life, he had been secretly thrilled to discover his shoulders had broadened, his brogue had deepened and he was sporting a not-unattractive beard, but in his mind and heart he was still an awkward, puny, sixteen-year-old virgin whose experience with romance could be summarised in one excruciatingly short paragraph, starting with the phrase ‘Unwilling participant in kiss chase, 1992-1994.’

Jemma deserved better. Jemma deserved _experience_. He had spent too much time with her holding his hand as he rediscovered the world, he needed to figure this out by himself.

Having come to this conclusion, Fitz groaned again, then sifted through the piles of designs around him to find his phone.

Building himself a life again suddenly at the age of 31 had been tricky, to say the least, but once he was out of hospital, had settled into his flat five minutes down the road from his mum and the shop was open, he had found some sense of peace.

Then Lance Hunter had walked through the door of his shop and thrown everything into chaos.

Hunter claimed to be an old friend of a friend. He was an avid Liverpool supporter, an obnoxious drunk and had been insisting for the last eight months that Fitz had ‘conveniently forgotten’ that he owed him £20.

He was also, by default, Fitz’s best friend.

Stealing himself, Fitz sent Hunter a message:

 **Fitz** : _Are you around for a drink tonight?_

 **Hunter** : _Whats wrong with right now xo_

 **Fitz** : _It’s only just gone three. On a Monday._

 **Hunter** : _Suit urself_

 **Hunter** : _O’Connors at 6?_

 **Fitz** : _Fine. See you there._

 **Hunter** : _Sexxxy xoxo_

Given the way Hunter spoke about his ex-wife now-mysteriously-absent girlfriend, he was not the best option to go to for advice about relationships of any kind. He was also, however, Fitz’s only option.

One way or another, he was going to learn how to woo Jemma Simmons.

++

Slipping off her shoes, Jemma padded into the kitchen, filling the kettle with water before switching it on to boil. As she stared absently at the tile work of her rented kitchen, her phone buzzed again, now a persistent drone.

The call was from a blocked number. She answered immediately.

“Hey,” came Daisy’s voice, filled with cautious optimism, “did you ask him? Is he in?”

“He’s in.” Jemma confirmed, reaching up to open her cupboard. She pulled down her favourite mug and placed it down carefully on the kitchen top, before turning to her labelled tea caddy. “We’re meeting tomorrow. He called it a date by mistake. It was rather sweet, actually.”

“Jemma…" Jemma could picture Daisy exactly, her hand massaging her temple, eyes closed, “you need to be careful. You know I’m with you on this, a hundred percent, but you can’t get your hopes up too high. You need to be prepared for the possibility that it might not work.”

“I know.” Behind her, the tea kettle clicked off, ready to pour, “But I have to try.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twenty-minute trip through the bustling streets of Glasgow city centre to his shop on the other side gave him plenty of time to contemplate just how many stupid mistakes he’d made the night before to get into this mess. The first, of course, being texting Hunter at all.
> 
> Despite his eagerness to meet earlier in the day, Fitz’s friend had arrived at the pub nearly half an hour late.
> 
> “Sorry darling, got held up at work.” Hunter greeted him, leaning over in an attempt to give Fitz a peck on the cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains swearing, euphemisms and flagrant abuse of British slang. You've been warned.

Fitz was running late. Ridiculously so. He had slept through his first alarm, then his emergency second, third, fourth and fifth, right on through to the obnoxious siren of his rarely used ‘you may as well not bother getting up at all’ back up at ten to nine.

 _“Fuck.”_ He cursed, diving under the still-cold-shower head, _“Fuck, fuck, fuckety- fuck. Fucking Hunter.”_

He scrubbed at himself as aggressively as he could manage, crippled as he was by an absolute rager of a hangover, before stumbling over to the sink. He gargled too much mouthwash before stopping to assess just how bad things were. No time to shave, his careful stubble now curling. Nothing to be done about his slightly blood-shot eyes either and _Jesus,_ was that a _spot_ forming on his forehead?

“ _Fuck!_ ” he yelled again, pelting it back into his bedroom. Frantically, he pulled on jeans and a not-too-crumpled plaid shirt. A reproachful mew sounded from the bedroom door.

“Oh Christ, sorry Fury.” Hastily, he followed the indignant cat out into his small kitchen as the feline in question went to stand pointedly by his empty food bowl, his one working eye glaring indignantly.

“You know, you could have tried waking me up if you were hungry. I thought cats were meant to bat at their owners faces or something. Like furry alarm clocks.” Fury did not grace this reproach with a response, but simply began to munch down on Fitz’s overly generous pouring of kibble.

“Yeah, okay.” He sighed, running a hand over his stubbly, spotty, alcohol sweating face. “Right.” Grabbing his jacket Fitz headed out, locking the door behind him before starting to half-jog down the street. There was a bus at the end of his road – the one he needed to catch - just pulling away from the curb.

“ _Fuck._ ” Fitz bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Distantly he heard the chime of the university clock ringing in 9 o’clock, the time FZZZT was meant to open. Groaning, he began to walk.

The twenty-minute trip through the bustling streets of Glasgow city centre to his shop on the other side gave him plenty of time to contemplate just how many stupid mistakes he’d made the night before to get into this mess. The first, of course, being texting Hunter at all.

Despite his eagerness to meet earlier in the day, Fitz’s friend had arrived at the pub nearly half an hour late.

“Sorry darling, got held up at work.” Hunter greeted him, leaning over in an attempt to give Fitz a peck on the cheek.

Ducking Hunter’s advances, Fitz snorted scornfully, “What work? What is it exactly you _do_ again?”

“Little bit of this, little bit of that,” Hunter gave a salacious wink, reaching over to grab his waiting pint, “cheers mate.” He downed almost half the beer in one go, eyes closed seemingly in rapture. “Ah, that’s just what I needed.” Wiping his chin, he turned in his seat, fixing Fitz with a mischievous grin.

“Now then, to what do I owe the pleasure? Last time I saw you, you told me to piss off and never darken your doorstep again.”

“You had _no right_ to say that about Man U. Just because Klopp’s in the FA’s pocket – “

“I will not hear a single bad word about my personal lord and saviour, Jürgen Klopp, thank you very much. He is a god among men. Anyway Fitzy, that’s all in the past.” Lance’s hand slapped Fitz’s back, causing the Scot to spill his beer in the process, “We’re here now. What do you need? Looking for more details on that little memory blank of yours? I’ve told you as much as I can really. _I’ve_ blocked out most of it to be honest, what with all the business with my hell beast of an ex-wife to contend with.”

“How is Bobbi? Still ‘on a business trip’?” Hunter grinned at Fitz’s obvious sarcasm.

“She’s _fantastic._ A beautiful, brilliant woman, my Bob. Never been more in love. And she’s in Dubai, I think.”

“Right.”

“Oi, don’t look at me like that. Long distance just works for us. Stops us from biting each other’s heads off. And it keeps things hot and heavy whenever we’re in the same place at the same time, if you know what I mean.” Fitz flushed as Hunter winked again, remembering why he’d messaged him in the first place. It was starting to seem like a very, very bad idea.

“Yeah, no I get it. Um, keeping the romance alive and all that.” Fitz shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, keeping his eyes on the half-empty pint in front of him. He sensed a sudden shift in Hunter’s focus.

“Hello…” he began. _Oh shit._ “Fitzy, is there something you’re not telling me? Perhaps about a certain sainted Doctor Simmons? Don’t tell me you finally managed to make your move?”

“I haven’t – we’re not – it isn’t like that. We’re just friends, I think. Maybe not even that. She’s just really good at her job.”

“Oh don’t give me that. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. It’s like a Disney movie come to life. Sickening really. And the way you go on and on: ‘Oh Simmons is so funny. Simmons is so clever, Simmons said the most _amazing_ thing about our perception of the fourth dimension the other day.’ You practically cream your knickers every time the woman sneezes.”

“I don’t … it’s not … _Jesus_ Hunter!” Fitz’s hand came up to massage his temple as his friend leant back, triumphant. “Yes. Okay? I like her. I do. But there’s absolutely no chance of anything happening. I’m 33 years old with the dating experience of a teenager. Less than, even. There’re not many dating opportunities when all your classmates are that much older than you.”

“Probably a good thing, I’ve heard those MIT cougars are _wild_.” Hunter grinned again as Fitz groaned in despair. “Oh cheer up mate, it’s not as bad as all that. Knowing Jem, she’d probably _like_ that you don’t know what you’re doing. Enjoy bossing you around a bit.”

Hunter wiggled his eyebrows, his grin now lecherous. Fitz’s head dropped to the table “’Oh, Fitz, please penetrate my English rose with your teeny tiny bagpipe.” Hunter cooed in a shockingly bad impression of Simmons.

“Oh, shut your face.” Fitz snapped as he raised his head again, cursing his blush and the fact that even _that_ hadn’t sounded completely unappealing. Hunter had begun to laugh, loud and obnoxious. “I never should've let you within fifty feet of her, you’re like a dog in heat.”

Hunter just carried on laughing.

“In fact, it’s _her_ fault I’m still bloody stupid enough to hang out with you. ‘Oh, Fitz, he’s just so vivacious, you’ll have such fun with him’ what was I _thinking_ – “

“Hey!” Fitz’s impression of Jemma was no better than Hunter’s, but it had sobered him up enough to stop laughing and instead point an indignant finger into Fitz’s chest, “That bird of yours happens to be an excellent judge of character. Remember when we all went bowling? You had a great time!”

Fitz had definitely not had a great time.

“Alright, maybe not the bowling. Or the gaming bar. Or the bingo night. But tonight is going to be bloody fantastic.” Hunter suddenly hopped up from his seat, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “You sit right there my lad. I’ll get the next round in, and then we’ll begin.”

“Begin what?” Fitz asked suspiciously.

“Your teaching of course!” To Fitz’s horror, Hunter made not one, but two finger guns, before doing an impression of what sounded like Barry White on acid, “The _lurve_ doctor is in.”

As Hunter headed toward the bar, humming an off-tune rendition of _Sexual Healing_ , Fitz contemplated just getting up and walking straight out of the pub. It wasn’t too late. But then his phone chimed in his pocket.

**Dr J Simmons:** _Just picked up the ingredients for my pesto aioli_ _😊 thanks again for agreeing to help, Fitz. See you at 1 tomorrow x_

Attached was a picture of her full shopping basket. Poking out from beneath the ingredients for the world’s greatest sandwich, he could see a bundle of kale, aloe vera hand soap and a copy of the New Scientist. His heart skipped a beat.

**Fitz:** _No problem. Looking forward to it!_

Before he could repocket his phone it pinged again. She had sent him a gif of Keanu Reeves blowing a kiss.

Hunter was heading back to the table, two new pints in hand.

“So. Are you ready?”

Fitz glanced back down at the still replaying gif and then up at his supposed love guru.

Sighing, he put his phone back in his pocket and nodded. “Yeah, okay, I’m ready.”

Hunter actually whooped in triumph.

“ _Excellent!_ You’ve made the right choice mate, I promise you. One night under my wing and you’ll have Jemma swooning in no time. Now, I took the liberty of doing some lesson prep at the bar. Here, look at my phone. This beauty, Fitzy boy, is called a _vagina._ ”

It was going to be a very long night.

And it had been. Very, very, very long. But after his fifth pint, a lot of what Hunter was saying had started to make sense. Between the lewd jokes and the attempts to show him extremely x-rated video clips in a crowded bar, he had even given him some pretty solid advice.

After last call, as they stumbled out onto the street to head back to their respective homes, Hunter had caught him in a drunken bear hug, kissing his ear sloppily, “Look mate, I _love_ you. You’re the best, just be yourself, she’ll love it, she already loves it, she loves you _so much._ ”

“Thanks Hunter, you’re the best, I love you too mate.”

“I love you.”

“I love _you.”_

“Let’s watch the match together next Saturday. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“No but I _miss you_ Fitz. You’re my best mate, and all of this is so hard –”

Their declarations were abruptly interrupted as a man came up beside them and started urinating forcefully against the pub wall. Moment ruined, they broke apart.

“Right, I’m off to the chippy.” Hunter declared, rubbing his stomach cartoonishly, “You coming?”

“Nah, I need to go home, I missed Fury’s dinner time. I’ll see you soon. Thanks again, Love Doctor.”

“Anytime mate, anytime.” Hunter nodded, turning ungracefully on a boozy heel before heading down the street, singing to himself off-key, “ _Baaaaaby, I can’t hold it much – hic – longerrrr…”_

Once Fitz got home, he had quickly fed his furious cat, murmuring profuse apologies and sweet nothings, before stumbling to his bed fully clothed and beer-soaked, but feeling triumphant.

But now it was the next morning, his lungs were on fire, he had a customer coming to collect their laptop in less than five minutes and he thought he might be dying from alcohol poisoning.

Hunter’s sage about ‘being himself’ to win the hand of Jemma Simmons was not necessarily unreasonable, but he probably meant Fitz’s _best_ self, not the one already sweating through his wrinkled shirt as he fumbled with the key to the door of his shop, cursing once more as he wrestled with the stiff lock.

“ _Fitz!_ ” Oh no. Had he gone through a worm hole? Was it 1pm already?

An effervescent, well-dressed and all together radiant Jemma Simmons was walking straight towards him, smiling knowingly.

“Simmons? What are you doing here?” _Please don’t come too near me I smell of lager and regret, oh god oh god._ She stopped about three feet away. Up close, her smile was tinged with mischief.

“I’m heading over to library, I’ve got some studying to do. But a little birdy told me you might be in need of a pick me up this morning, so I thought I’d swing by to see you first.” She held out a previously unseen patterned portable tea mug and a brown paper bag, promisingly grease stained.

“Is that –”

“A bacon and egg bap from The Pantry, brown sauce.” She beamed at him as he took the proffered bag with an unholy moan of gratitude, “The tea’s from home though. I’ll pick the mug up later at lunch?”

“Yeah, yeah of course. _God_ Simmons, this is amazing. You are the _absolute_ best.” He tore his gaze up from the sandwich bag he had just opened, letting the bap’s intoxicating smell waft over him. Jemma’s cheeks were tinged pink, pleased.

“You’re quite welcome. I think that’s your first customer arriving, too.” she nodded behind her. The giant of a man that had signed in his defunct computer the week before was making his way up the street, lifting a huge hand in greeting.

“Uh, oh yeah, it is.” Fitz was still processing the last minute of his life, which was also possibly the greatest. Simmons, bacon, tea – it was too much for his hungover brain to handle.

“I’ll see you in a few hours then?” she asked as he continued to stare blankly at the approaching giant. God, he’d forgotten just how huge the man was. He was built like an action figure.

“What? Yeah, sounds great. Brilliant, even. Seriously Simmons, _thank you._ ”

“It was my pleasure.” She touched his shoulder gently, then stepped past him to carry on down the street. The giant man nodded at her as she passed, flashing incredibly white teeth.

“Hey there, Turbo, how’s it going?” he called as he neared the shop, towering over the still dazed Fitz. The giant’s shadow jolted him into action.

“Um, hello Mr Mackenzie.” Balancing Simmons’ treats in one hand, he managed to finally push open the door. He held it for the giant to follow him side, then hastily dumped his precious breakfast onto a nearby shelf, reaching up to switch on the lights.

“I told you Turbo, call me Mack.”

“Yeah, right, sorry um- Mack. Running a bit late this morning.” He rushed around behind the counter, fumbling again with his keys. “I’ve got your computer out back, just give me a second.”

“I’m in no hurry, take your time.”

The giant – Mack – had brought in his laptop the previous week, hosting what at first had seemed like a run of the mill virus but had in fact turned out be something much more sinister. Fitz had rung him the day before, explaining that he’d need to come in to go through all the details. Mack had seemed surprisingly calm when he heard news. He had also, for no apparent reason, started calling him Turbo. Fitz was too confused to ask why.

Stepping through a messy pile of tech, tools and half-finished projects, Fitz called back through to Mack in the main shop.

“So as I was saying on the phone, it may _look_ like a standard Trojan Horse, but actually it’s piggy-backing your data and filtering it through multiples IPs to go through to one encrypted address. I tried a hand at hacking into it, but it’s got a pretty nasty firewall.” He found the laptop and carefully pulled it down from the storage shelf, walking it back into the shop and placing it down on the counter, “To be honest, I think you should go to the police. Have the cyber crimes unit take a look.”

“You think it’s that serious?”

“I can’t say for sure, but whoever got into your system is stripping your data _very_ aggressively, they really must want whatever is it they’re trying to find…” Fitz hesitated. He didn’t want to mention the numerous dummy files he had found, fronting for what was obviously some very sensitive information. It wasn’t his place to know. “What did you say you do again?”

Mack smiled, warm and easy, “I’m a mechanic.”

“Bit far from home to be fixing engines.”

“I like to travel.” Mack breezed, pulling the computer towards him.

Fitz refrained from asking what exactly an American muscle man mechanic would find worth visiting in Glasgow. The dummy files could be concealing all sorts of unseemly criminal data, but for whatever reason, Fitz trusted Mack. There was simply something about him that seemed safe. Maybe he just had a very well-guarded porn collection. Nothing wrong with that, as Hunter would say. Or he was a spy. A super spy, like Black Widow or Hawk Eye. That’d explain the arms the size of tree trunks.

He shrugged and returned Mack’s peaceful smile, “Well, I can’t do much more with your laptop, but if you want any sightseeing tips, let me know.”

“Ah don’t worry about it, you did good with the laptop Turbo, thank you. And I might hold you to the tips thing – you always lived here?”

“Born and raised.” Fitz nodded, pulling open a drawer behind the counter to find his job summary notes, “Me and my mum both. Can you pass me that… uh…” he turned to find Mack already holding out a stapler, still smiling, “thanks.” He tapped his pages of notes down on the counter before stapling them together and handing them over.

“That’s a break down of everything I found and a rough assessment of what’s needed. If you do decide to take it up with cyber crimes my number’s there at the bottom, too. No charge obviously, since I couldn’t get it fixed.”

“Oh no Turbo, of course I’ll pay, for the consultancy at least. What did we say, 50 bucks?”

“Um, pounds, yeah.”

Mack pulled out his wallet and counted five ten-pound notes, frowning. “Can’t get used to this currency, seems like toy money, know what I mean?” he offered it to Fitz who put it through the till, chuckling.

“Yeah, I remember this one time in Morocco I – " he froze halfway through passing Mack his receipt, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of confusion mixed with an inexplicable jolt of sadness.

“You okay there, Turbo?”

_It was risky, stupidly so, but he had to try – if there was any chance at all, he had to try. He waited restlessly in line to exchange his dollars for dirham; he’d left too quickly to sort it out before he got in the plane. How long before Coulson realised he was gone?_

“Fitz?” Mack’s concerned voice jolted him out of his reverie. What was that, a fantasy? A memory? Who the hell was Coulson? And how could he have possibly been in any situation where he felt that desperate?

“Fitz, is everything alright?”

Mack was staring at him hard, hand hovering over his jeans pocket, poised to take out his phone.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He coughed, trying to avert Mack’s continued steady gaze, “Um, so you’ve got everything there, like I said ring if you need anything else. And er, if you are around for a while, I’d recommend a trip to Pollock Park. They’ve got highland cows which are really adorable, so…”

He met Mack’s eye, forcing himself to give the man what he hoped came across as a polite smile, but was probably more likely a tight grimace. The giant sighed and nodded, scooping up the laptop in one mighty arm.

“Well, okay then. Thanks again Turbo.”

“No problem at all. Just doing my job.”

“Right.” Mack turned to leave then hesitated, hand diving into his pocket to pull out a slim, cream business card, “Look, this might seem a little strange, but if you ever need anything, anything at all, you can ring me, okay? Don’t bother with the number I gave you before. This is the best one to reach me on, usually.”

He handed over the card and Fitz scanned it quickly.

“Mack the Mechanic: mega man, mega results?”

“Ahh, I lost a bet. A friend of mine came up with it,” Mack smiled, “but seriously Turbo, any time, alright?”

“Um, yeah okay.”

**_Definitely_ ** _a super spy._

“Great. See you around. And don’t forget your breakfast.” He gestured to the tea and sandwich, still waiting on the shelf near the door, before raising his hand in a mini salute and leaving, heading quickly out and into the city.

Fitz swore, running over to collect his forgotten goods. The tea was still warm but the sandwich was now stone cold. Still delicious though … probably.

Slowly, Fitz headed back to behind the counter and sat down heavily in his chair, mind reeling. He hadn’t even been awake an hour yet, but he was already exhausted. Sipping the tea and unwrapping his breakfast, he stared down again at Mack’s business card.

As far he knew, he had never been to Morocco. Or anywhere, outside of the UK and the States. He took a bite of his (thankfully still tasty) bacon bap before leaning over to pull open a drawer. There, neatly labelled and ordered, were the dossiers that made up the missing years of his life.

He’d read them over and over at first, until he could almost recite them by heart, but he still had no actual memory of the life they detailed. According to the files, once he’d graduated MIT he had gone to the SHIELD academy, graduating second in his class (he had queried this at the time, but Simmons had insisted the information was accurate) before setting up a lab in their Sci-Ops department.

However, before _Hydra_ of all things was revealed to have infiltrated SHIELD at all levels, he had taken on a job at Stark Industries.

In the Stark folder there was a detailed list of patents, some his own and others made for the company. None of his inventions were familiar, there were even some he didn’t know how he could possibly have made, but the profits from the majority of them had helped him buy his shop and flat.

It also included one, singular, page-long summary of his time at the company. It described him as a brilliant, dedicated employee, but one that kept to himself. The writer claimed to have no knowledge of Fitz’s personal life but stated that they were truly sorry when they heard about his car accident. They finished by saying that if Fitz ever felt ready to return to Stark, their door was always open.

The statement was co-signed by Pepper Potts herself, who had added a small note along with her signature:

_Good luck, Dr Fitz._

No matter how many times he read it, this story of his life did not ring true. Yes, he’d always been shy, finding it hard to make even casual friends, but had he really been so alone all those years? Was there no one, anywhere, who had cared about him?

There was his mum of course, but she was uncharacteristically vague about his missing past. She insisted that he had always been very busy but had called when he could and that she had been – and still was – proud of him. Then she usually got too upset for him to feel like he could push for more information.

And SHIELD had fallen, yes, but then it had risen again, under a new director. There was Quake, the Avengers, alien worlds now – so many new, amazing, unfathomable wonders. There was folder after folder of technological and scientific discovery in those dossiers and a mountain of politics and pop culture developments that he was still struggling to wrap his head around. _Doctor Who_ had come back, there were more and more _Star Wars_ films coming out – surely, amongst all these seemingly impossible things, something extraordinary might have happened to him?

Then there was the Simmons of it all. When he had first woken up, disorientated and terrified, Simmons had been there. He had felt sure, just for a moment, that he knew her, but then the feeling had slipped away as quickly as it had come.

But he couldn’t ignore the itch at the back of his head, the persistent, irrational hope that maybe he had known her once. Maybe their paths had crossed before, fleetingly, at a scientific conference or on a random street corner. The feeling he got when he looked at her, that all encompassing overwhelming safety of _home_ couldn’t have just sprung up from nowhere. Sometimes he felt he had always known her, somehow.

One day, if he could ever summon enough courage, he’d tell her that.

He spent the rest of the morning brooding and nursing his still persistent hangover. The shop was quiet, save for a few people wondering in off the street to have their phones unlocked or to buy the extra gadgets and gizmos advertised on the sign outside.

Usually, he would have used the downtime as an opportunity to work on some of the ideas constantly spinning around in his head, or to carry on his research on all the different progressions in tech in the past decade, but his uneasiness after his strange flashback (fantasy? Daydream?) while talking to Mack had left him unfocused.

At quarter to one, he moved from his seat and into the room at the back of his shop, which was home to a small bathroom and a kitchenette. He headed into the loo to check his appearance, sighing to himself as he saw that his suspicions had been correct – that _was_ a spot on his forehead – and his hair was curling in an unruly fashion.

In the six months he and Simmons had spent together as doctor and patient he had surely looked worse at points, but he had been unable to resist viewing their planned lunch that day as a pseudo-date, or a precursor to one, if he managed to follow the few genuinely good pieces of advice Hunter had bestowed.

“You need the 5 H’s!” he’d slurred, holding up a hand and swaying slightly, “Handsomeness, Humour, Honesty and _Head_. Lots of it. You need to go downtown _at least_ once a week. You know, dive for pearls, smooch the cootch, tickle the teapot, tame the badger – “

“I am begging you, please, please stop.” Fitz leant forward a little too heavily as he covered Hunter’s mouth with his hand. The git took the opportunity to swirl his tongue along it lavishly.

“ _Oh for f-_ hang on, that’s only four!” Fitz frowned, wiping his saliva- soaked palm on the arm of Hunter’s jacket, “What’s number five?”

“Ah, Fitzy, I’m afraid number five is impossible to achieve. For you see, the true way to a woman’s heart…” here he pushed himself up from his chair, placing his hands on his hips, “is to be Lance _Hunter,_ the cockney Casanova, world’s greatest lover.”

“World’s greatest tosser, you mean.”

“Say what you want, mate, but I have the love of the most beautiful women in the world, and I have the five H’s to thank for it.” He sat down again, heavily, suddenly serious, “Honesty though. That’s the most important one. Always be honest, or everything else counts for shit.” He grabbed Fitz’s shoulders, forcing him to look straight into his eyes, “Remember that, Fitz.”

And though some moments from the night before were quite hazy – blissfully so, knowing the sort of thing Hunter was capable of talking him into – Fitz remembered that. Above all else, be honest.

Checking the time, he switched on the kettle to prepare his and Simmons’ tea, rootling around the cupboard for his nicest mugs (a present from Jemma herself) and the gluten-free biscuits she was so fond of. As he poured the milk into their respective cups, the bell above the shop door chimed.

“Hello!” called Simmons cheerfully, “Shall I flip the sign?”

“Yeah please,” Fitz called back, carefully arranging everything on a floral tea tray he’d inherited from his mum, “I’ll just be a moment.”

He slowly carried everything back into the main room where Simmons stood smiling, bag in hand.

“Oh perfect, I’m dying for a cuppa.” She stepped round behind the counter and sat down in the chair Fitz had set out for her, looking for all the world as if she was exactly where she belonged. It tugged at something deep in Fitz’s chest, another sensation that pulled _home, happiness_ and _Jemma_ together, an indisputable fact of the universe, a pure mathematical truth.

He set the tea tray down and sat across from her, trying to school his features into anything other than the soppy grin he currently wore, but it was hopeless. Jemma Simmons had stopped by for lunch. He was the luckiest man on any planet.

He realised that while he’d been swooning like a twitter-pated teen, Jemma had started talking, unloading her bag with a notepad and pen as well as two enticingly wrapped parchment packages.

“… and I realise that, in your case, there’s been little evidence of _any_ recall, but I still think it’s worth exploring. There’s so many things that can spark a memory: a sound, a touch, a taste;” she passed him one of the paper wrapped bundles, “besides, even if you never get those years back, the life you’ve built for yourself now is easily worth talking about. Yes, you only have sixteen or so years’ worth of memories, but your mind is still _extraordinary._ Scientists the world over would give an arm and a leg to have half the brain you have.” She grinned at him, nudging his leg with her foot, “Don’t let that go to your head now, I only mean professionally speaking, for the paper.” She unwrapped her own sandwich and took a bite, thoughtful, “I think we’ll make quite a team.”

“Mmm.” In the time she’d been talking, Fitz had managed to devour almost all his own sandwich, and now stared longingly at Simmons’ barely eaten one.

“Oh Fitz, really? That is _not_ good for your digestion.”

“I can’t help it, it’s too delicious _._ The best thing I’ve ever eaten. Don’t tell my mum, mind.” He looked down at his final corner piece, morosely, “I just wish I remembered to savour it.”

“Well I’ve brought some extra aioli for you to use at home. You know it’s good for me to make these, it reminds me to stock up my fridge. If I’m not careful I live on breakfast bars and soggy hospital canteen salads,” Jemma smiled again, affection, “you’re the culinary one.”

Fitz frowned, final piece of his precious lunch still halfway to his mouth, “How’d you know that?”

“Oh your mum told me. Best meat and tatties in all of Scotland, apparently.” Was it Fitz’s imagination, or was her tone flirtatious? He flushed and coughed before replying.

“Well yeah, it was just me and her, after my dad left, had to learn to cook to pull my weight. I’m not a culinary master or anything, but I do a good spag bol.”

“Oh really? I’ll have to try it sometime.”

“Yeah okay.” He said quickly, overly eager, then hastily shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth in attempt to cover his own mortification. _Smooth, Leopold._

Jemma was still smiling, amber eyes dancing, “When?”

Fitz swallowed heavily. “When what?”

“When can I try it?”

Time froze. His mouth was so dry. Was he dying? Maybe he was dead. That would it explain. There was no other possible reason for Jemma to be asking to try his bolognese (since when had that word sounded so filthy?). Yes; he was dead, and this was heaven, and Jemma wanted him to cook her dinner. Possibly. Was that what she meant? Oh _Jesus Christ -_

_Honesty._

“Whenever you want.” The words came out high pitched and strangled, his bad left-hand jittering with nerves, “I’d love to cook for you.”

Slowly, Simmons put down her sandwich. She leant across – Fitz’s breath hitched – and grabbed his trembling fingers, massaging the knuckles carefully. It was something she’d done countless times in hospital to stop the trembling, but it felt different now in his shop, quiet but for the occasional passer-by on the street outside. The afternoon sun was trickling in, dusting Jemma’s hair with gold.

“I’d love that too.” She murmured, eyes still fixed on his fingers, now entwined with her own, “If you’re sure?”

He took a deep breath before nodding, “Yeah, yeah I am.” They looked up at each other at the same time, Fitz willing himself to hold her gaze, “I – it would – I mean … of course I’m sure.”

The sun was catching her perfectly. She looked like high art, a renaissance painting of an ancient goddess or queen, the play of freckles on her cheek their very own masterpiece. Fitz was sure she must be able to hear his heart pounding in his chest fit to burst as her fingers squeezed his.

She looked almost as radiant as he felt, watching him with a starry smile, her eyes soft and warm.

“When? Is tomorrow too soon?”

“What’s wrong with tonight?”

Simmons laughed, delighted and loud, their hands finally breaking apart as she ducked her head and reached up to brush her hair behind her ears. She was blushing beautifully.

“Three meals in one day, promise you won’t get sick of me?” she teased.

“Impossible.” Jemma’s blush deepened as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Okay, then yes. Let’s do it tonight.”

They beamed at each other like idiots for a few more moments, then Jemma cleared her throat, cheeks still pink and glowing as she turned to reach for her notepad.

“Right. Well, then, now that’s settled, I should probably talk you through the key points of my thesis proposal so you have an understanding of what I’m intending to do.”

To Fitz’s complete lack of surprise, Jemma’s thesis was incredibly thorough, extremely intellectual, and utterly brilliant. They talked through the plan of action for her chapter on Fitz, from interviews to tests and summary reports, stopping occasionally to smile dopily at one another, their usual camaraderie shifting into something more hopeful; something with more intent. The far-off clock tower chimed in 2pm far too soon.

“Okay, well I need to head back to the library and then I have some patients to follow up with this afternoon.” Jemma said, repacking her bag and shouldering it, “Is 8pm okay for tonight?”

“Perfect.” He stood up then hesitated, unsure what to do. He put his hands in his pockets and swayed back and forth on his heels, “I’ll see you then, Simmons.”

Smiling again – had she ever stopped, in that whole hour? – Simmons leant forward and softly pecked his cheek, “I think you can call me Jemma now, Fitz. I’ll see you later. I can’t wait.”

Fitz stood stunned, pulling himself together just as Jemma reached the shop door, flipping the sign back over to ‘OPEN’.

“See you – er, Jemma.” She grinned one last time, wriggling her fingers in farewell, then left.

Slowly, Fitz sat back down, hand resting carefully on the cheek where the ghost of Jemma’s brief kiss still lingered. For a moment, all was still.

Then, extreme panic kicked in. He reached for his phone and dialled frantically, listening impatiently to the torturous ringing down the line.

“Leo?”

“ _Mum._ Please, you’ve got to help me, it’s an emergency. I need your bolognese recipe _now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time reader, first time writer. Thank you so much for reading :) I'm planning to update this weekly from now on, but might post the next two chapters a bit sooner as we're all in lockdown.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You better be good tonight, Simmons is coming round. Remember her? She’s the reason you’re freeloading off me, instead of out on the street with the other violent thugs.”
> 
> Director Fury ignored him, flicking his tail dismissively before brushing past Fitz to head out the cat flap, probably to continue his reign of terror amongst the other pets along the street, as well as any rodents that dared cross his path.

**_Spaghetti Bolognese: A Recipe for Romance!_ **

  * _Chop up one whole onion and 2-3 garlic cloves. Put into the pan with a hefty dash of olive oil then simmer._
  * _Once the onion is brown, slowly pour in about a glass’ worth of red wine (nice wine. If you wouldn’t drink it, don’t put it in your food, Leo.)_
  * _Now, add a beef stock cube, and stir vigorously until dissolved, then put in the mince._
  * _Once the mince is looking half done, throw in two tins of chopped tomatoes and stir again. Add more wine._
  * _Once that has simmered down and everything is looking less like soup, add whatever vegetables you like_ (but add some _vegetables, please)_
  * _Chook some oregano, basil and thyme in there. Add more wine._
  * _Salt another saucepan and add the spaghetti._
  * _Once cooked, put it all together and add cheese._
  * _Eat bolognese, drink the rest of the wine._



Fitz frowned down at his mother’s recipe, scrawled loosely on a page torn out of an old notebook. She had decorated the outside edges with cartoon hearts.

“It’s a bit vague, mum.”

“Well excuse me, I only just wrote it up. You’re the one who insisted I drop everything and come down here to give it to you and you’re lucky I did. If you hadn’t said it was for Jemma I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Marianne Fitz tutted, then leant forward to pick yet another piece of invisible lint off of her son’s shirt sleeve, “Honestly Leo, what must your customers think? I _know_ you own an iron since I’m the one who bought it, but here you are dressing like you were born in a barn.”

“Ah, leave off mum. I was just up late this morning alright?”

“Out drinking with that Hunter fellow again? Och, sure he seems a nice lad but really love, he’s a bit of a pie don’t you think? And a terrible influence, I’ll never be able to show my face at the bingo again. Poor Rosie McGinnell saw more of that friend of yours that night than any god-fearing woman could ever want to see. And her a widow, not privy to any man’s tallywhacker going on ten years now – ”

“Aww _mum_ , please! You know that wasn’t my fault –”

“- and I was so close to getting a line, too. One Heinz variety and I could’ve afforded my mini break with the girls.”

“Mum, I told you, just let _me_ pay for the trip.”

“Oh no, I won’t hear another word of _that,_ thank you very much. My new dishwasher and the bar of fruit and nut was more than enough. Eleven settings, just for cleaning your plates! Young Mr. Davis from next door couldn’t believe it when I showed him.”

“It’s not like I’ll be off on my holidays anytime soon and you deserve a proper break. If you wanted, you could even – wait. Who’s Mr Davis?”

Marianne chuckled, hands reaching up to primp her already pristine hair, “Oh, didn’t I say? He’s the lovely new American chap that took old Geoff’s place. Polite as you like and _handy,_ too, he sorted out my gutters last week.”

Fitz blanched, “I could’ve done that for you.”

“Of course you could’ve chuck, but where’s the fun in that?” Seeing her son’s horrified expression, Marianne laughed again, gleeful and mischievous.

“I’m only yanking you, you daft monkey. I’ve not the energy for a toy boy these days, and he’s not a free agent besides. Lovely wife and the sweetest bairn you ever saw, apart from you of course. Almost the same beautiful blue eyes though. Ach, they could launch ships, those eyes of yours.”

She leant over again, cupping Fitz’s face in her careworn, tender hands, “You’re so handsome, my boy. Look at you! When did you get so grown up and gorgeous? And canny to boot. That Jemma is a _lucky, lucky_ lass.”

“I told you on the phone mum, it’s not like that. It’s just dinner.”

“’Just dinner’, he says. Well, maybe just use the one clove of garlic anyway, to be safe. And you know, I heard on the radio the other day some types of cheese are an aphrodisiac, if you ken.”

“ _What. The. **Hell,**_ mum!” Fitz buried his face in his hands, feeling his cheeks burn as they turned beetroot red, “Please never, _ever_ say that word to me ever again.”

“Oh hush now, I was young once too, you know, else you’d still be a twinkle in your da’s eye. Anyway, you should be more grateful to your poor old ma, I brought supplies.”

Fitz watched as his mother dug around in her tattered handbag. Despite Fitz’s many attempts to buy her a new one, his offers had fallen on deaf ears. The woman was impossibly stubborn. He took in a deep, calming breath.

“Of course I’m grateful, mum, you know that.”

Marianne looked up, waving a hand at him dismissively but smiling softly all the same.

“Oh you know I’m only teasing, you’re a good lad really. Now, where've I put them – aha!” with a triumphant flourish she pulled something from her Mary Poppins’ bag of wonders, seemingly bottomless as it was. It took Fitz a moment to realise what she was holding.

“ _Candles?!_ ”

“To set the mood, son! You won’t be winning any fair hearts with the way that flat of yours looks now, unless you want to try and tell me Dr Simmons’ idea of interior design is mangy cat toys and dirty socks. There’s a table runner in here too, a lovely lace one from your nan.”

“ _How?_ And _why?_ ”

“I just said! Are you even listening to me?” she thumped both the runner and the candles down on the shop counter, now looking quite fierce, “Hear me now Leopold Fitz:, that Jemma Simmons is the best thing that ever happened to you and I won’t let you muck this up just because you don’t know how to make a home presentable. God forbid I actually get to _attend_ a wedding of yours – ”

“Alright! Alright.” Fitz raised his hands in surrender, before reaching down slowly and making a show of gathering the runner and candles and placing them carefully in his bag, along with the recipe and a few rolled up designs he was hoping to get Jemma’s opinion on that evening.

“I’ll use them. And _thank you,_ mum, for this. And the recipe. I really appreciate it.” He came around the counter to sling his arm around her shoulder in a sideways embrace, “Though really, it is just dinner, you might want hold off on shopping for your wedding hat for now.”

“Shopping? I’ve already got it picked out.”

Fitz sighed then gave an amused chuckle, squeezing his mum’s shoulder tenderly, “Of course you have. I’d expect nothing less.”

Marianne laughed with him, then raised an arm to check the watch on her wrist, “Alright then, I best be off now anyway. I’ve got my self-defence class tonight.”

Fitz shook his head in disbelief as his mother collected her things. The Pilates, Zumba and rock-climbing lessons he could get behind, but his mum’s new fighting skills were something he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Aside from anything else, he thought any assailant would back off from a simple _look_ from Marianne Fitz, before she could even stand back into her newly learnt, ninja-like stance.

Off on a mental tangent on what name his mother’s special power should be called, (The Glaswegian Matriach Death Stare? The Haggis-Hurling Glower? The Argyll Destroyer?) Fitz jumped as his mum reached up to kiss him on the cheek, pinching the other between warm, wrinkled fingers.

“Might want to shave before tonight, you’re a right mess. You be good, love. And say hello to Jemma for me.” She buttoned her coat carefully before walking to the door, calling her after, “I’ll expect a _full_ report tomorrow, and a proper retelling at teatime Friday.”

“There’ll be nothing to tell!” Fitz sighed at his mother’s disbelieving look, “Okay, okay. Bye, mum. Love you.”

“Love you too, my boy.”

She bustled off down the street, striking a small but strong figure as she went. Fitz felt a wave of love and affection wash him over, mixed in with the usual exasperation and confusion that came from an encounter with his mum.

He’d have to keep eye on that Davis bloke she’d mentioned. Just to be sure.

He glanced at the clock, despairing when he realised he still had an hour to go before the shop closed. There was absolutely no chance he’d be using the frilly floral table runner his mum had forced upon him, but other than that, she did have a point; his flat wasn’t exactly the perfect date – _dinner_ – setting in its current state.

He pictured the carpet strewn with cat hair, the pile of cereal bowls stacked high in the sink, the toothpaste streak on the bathroom mirror, and made a decision. Quickly, he packed up the shop and collected his things – running to grab Jemma’s forgotten portable mug, still waiting in the kitchen – before locking up early to get ready.

++

Two hours later, he stumbled into his flat, trying to avoid the unusually affectionate Fury as he wound his way around his owner’s legs.

“Hang on a moment, Director.” He huffed, dropping his many shopping bags down on to the kitchen table and shaking out his aching arms. Fury purred loudly, flopping onto his back to expose his rarely seen – and incredibly fluffy – belly.

“I’m not going to fall for that again you bloody-thirsty fiend, I’ve still got the scratch marks from last time,” Fitz grumbled, before relenting and leaning down to scratch the cat behind his ears. Quick as a flash, a clawed paw came up to swipe at his fingers.

“ _Ow!_ Bloody hell. You’re a monster!” Fury purred louder, rolling himself back into an upright position with impressive smugness and dignity.

“You better be good tonight, Simmons is coming round. Remember her? She’s the reason you’re freeloading off me, instead of out on the street with the other violent thugs.”

Director Fury ignored him, flicking his tail dismissively before brushing past Fitz to head out the cat flap, probably to continue his reign of terror amongst the other pets along the street, as well as any rodents that dared cross his path.

Fitz sighed. It had been Jemma’s idea to get a cat, though at the time she probably hadn’t been envisaging the giant, one-eyed grouch he’d ended up with.

“A companion,” she’d said, “a nice, cuddly friend to keep you company in your new flat. Seems a shame to waste that lovely garden, and it has a cat flap already!”

Fitz had not been convinced, but had gone along with her to the local shelter anyway. He’d perked up slightly as a moody teenage volunteer showed them around the cattery, introducing them to big, soppy toms and petite calicos that mewed delicately as they passed. He’d just been contemplating the possibility of adopting a shy tabby, coaxing it gently to the window of its small play area, when Simmons had called him over.

“Oh, Fitz, _look!_ Isn’t he beautiful?”

In her arms, purring contently yet still managing to convey an aura of monstrous terror, had been Fury. Or rather, as some overworked, unimaginative shelter worker had originally named him: ‘Mr Furry’. Fitz yelped in shock and horror.

“Beautiful? He doesn’t even look like a _cat_. I think there’s been some sort of mistake. He’s more of a badger-demon hybrid. Christ, look at the size of him!”

“Oh, don’t listen to the silly grumpy man Mr Furry, you are _gorgeous_.” Jemma cooed, lifting the cat to press kisses along one slightly mangled ear, “James says they found him in a box on their doorstep over a year ago! Can you imagine? Who would do that to you, my darling? Who would do that you, my beautiful boy?” Fury leaned into Jemma’s fingers as she scratched him under the chin, his face a vision of ecstasy.

Fitz was definitely _not_ jealous.

The moody teen, James, had woken up to watch the sickening exchange with mild awe, “I cannae believe he’s even letting ya stroke ‘im! He’s half a’feral, we have ta use the tongs to-for his scran or he’ll skelp ye, the wee brute.”

“See, Simmons? _Tongs._ And he’s wearing an _eye patch._ You said a companion, not a cartoon super villain.”

“He’s missing an eye, bless him, but that doesn’t matter, he’s even lovelier without it.” The beast seemed to be attempting to wrap himself around Simmons’ neck like a scarf, nuzzling into her cheek, purr now the volume of a small tank.

“We have no idea how he the lost eye.” James said, ominously.

Fitz gestured to James, the once unhelpful guide now his one, true friend, then at the longhaired ball of pure nightmares that was currently enjoying a head scratch from a besotted Jemma.

“ _He’s using you._ ” Fitz urged desperately, “He’s acting all sweet and innocent now so you’ll break him out of his prison to fulfil his evil purpose.”

James nodded fervently, taking a step back from the cat, who had stopped purring to hiss viciously in Fitz’s general direction.

“Oh no, now you’ve upset him.” Jemma said crossly, before turning her head up from her fussing to catch Fitz’s look of despair. She sighed, relenting.

“I suppose it’s your decision, but it seems such a shame. No one else has shown any interest in him _at all_ , in all this time.”

Fitz snorted, “Big surprise.”

Jemma gave him a reproachful glare, but carefully placed Fury back in his playroom before reluctantly sealing the door. Fury gave a bereft miaow, tapping his paws at the glass. Fitz watched as Jemma slowly reached a hand up to the window again, her face now terribly sad.

He approached her gently, “Simmons? You okay?”

She broke from her reverie to give him a tight smile, before turning back to where Fury was now stood perfectly still, gazing up at her adoringly. Against his will, Fitz felt a tug on his heart strings. He knew that look.

“I’m alright, Fitz.” She said, placing her hand on his arm, “Honestly, _I’d_ take him if I could, but my building doesn’t allow pets. I just hate the idea of him being here, day after day, watching people choose any other cat but _him._ Just because he’s a bit tetchy, or a little bit strange. He must be so lonely.” She sighed again before shaking her head, smiling. “I’m being silly, I know.”

Fitz’s resolve broke. It was inevitable, really. Since when had he been capable of saying no to the Jemma Simmons? He sent up a prayer that he wouldn’t be found a week later in his bedroom, mauled by the terrible creature in front of him, then turned to James.

“Okay. I’ll take him.”

Now, ten months later, re-christened for the famous agent Simmons cited as one of her personal heroes, Fury was eating Fitz out of house and home, had chased away any and all the beautiful song birds that had once perched on the olive-green fence of his small garden and had shredded the end of the sofa beyond repair.

Still, Fitz had to admit, grudgingly, that the black raincloud of fur and fury had grown on him. Just a bit. It _was_ nice to have someone to come home to.

Plus, the Director had the added benefit of being one of the main reasons Simmons had visited Fitz’s flat in the interim between his adoption and that night’s dinner. He was also an excellent excuse to text Jemma, bombarding her with pictures of an angry Fury sitting in his shower, barring him from getting clean, or scowling from a crushed flowerbed. Although, when Simmons _did_ come to visit, Fury tended to monopolise her time, jumping onto her lap and demanding laborious strokes and cuddles, tapping her persistently with a paw whenever she stopped to talk properly to Fitz.

Hesitating, Fitz leant over and locked the cat flap. He hadn’t even got himself back upright before stopping to unlock it again. Alone time with Jemma just wasn’t worth whatever vengeance the feline monster would reign down upon him.

However, he needed to take advantage of the time Fury wasn’t slinking menacingly around the flat to attempt to get rid of the seemingly endless mounds of fur he shed in his every waking moment. Fitz did a quick scan of the room.

It was worse than he thought: the recycling was overflowing, there were muddy footprints by the floor from where he kept forgetting to buy a front door mat, and the air held a strange mildew smell he suspected was a combination of his busy mind and bachelor status.

Luckily, he was more than equipped. Along with the ingredients for that night's dinner, he had picked up more candles (his mum had got in his head), fresh flowers, four packs of multipurpose wipes and had even gone mad in the Tesco clothing section and bought himself a new shirt. It was blue, like his eyes. Scratching absently at his beard, he made a plan of action.

But the best laid plans can still go awry. First, he had decided to clean the toilet. Once he’d scrubbed that, he noticed some mild grot on the tiles in the shower. Then he’d gone into the utility cupboard to pull out fresh towels, but that had just highlighted how grubby the bathmat was looking, so then he’d decided to run it through the tumble dryer.

The dryer was just off the kitchen, which reminded him that his fridge needed cleaning, and the spice rack was disorganised. And come to think of it, had he cleaned the microwave even _once_ since he’d moved in?

Then there’d been the watermarks on the table in the living room, the dust on the bookshelves, an errant stain on the hall curtain from when he’d tripped carrying a takeaway curry.

He’d then remembered the flowers which were wilting by the sink. But he didn’t have a vase; so in a fit of desperation he had to run into his room and empty out his old Tardis money box, filling it hurriedly with water that splashed all over the floor – but that needed mopping anyway, and he still had to hoover.

By the time he was satisfied, there was only half an hour until Jemma was meant to arrive. Spiralling, he dived into the shower, hoping against hope that just this once, Jemma would break what must be a habit of a lifetime and arrive late. Fury wondered in as he was attempting to do something with his hair, tail swishing side to side as he watched Fitz’s increasing panic with obvious disdain.

He was only just buttoning up his new shirt, turning in the mirror to see how it looked – _bollocks_ , a little tight, he kept forgetting how big his shoulders were now – when the doorbell rang.

He swung the door open, revealing Jemma in a deep blue dress and sporting a bow heart of bright red lipstick, brandishing a bottle of wine with glee.

“I haven’t even started cooking yet.” He said frantically in lieu of a proper greeting, eyes wide, “I got caught up cleaning and the time just got away from me.”

“I can tell, goodness! It’s like a showroom in here.” Jemma grinned, stepping over the threshold and shrugging off her jacket, which Fitz quickly reached over to take from her. She stepped slowly into the kitchen and living area, taking everything in.

“ _Wow._ It’s sparkling! And it smells –” here she took a hefty sniff, face creased in concentration, “like wildflowers. And sort of like pine. And fresh cotton? Was there a special offer on candles by any chance?”

“Uh, yeah, three for two; I wasn’t sure which ones were good so…” he shrugged, leaning against the doorway to the room where Jemma stood, turning in a circle and smiling wide. She stopped, catching sight of the flowers on the kitchen table.

“ _Sunflowers!_ They’re my favourite.” She turned to Fitz, treating him to a joyous grin, “Oh Fitz, it’s _perfect._ And if you haven’t cooked yet, even better! I can watch you work while I drink all this wine and complain about my day.”

It _was_ perfect. _She_ was perfect. Fitz felt all the manic energy and stress from the past few hours fade away as he watched Jemma toe off her shoes and pad over to the fridge.

“I’ll be your Sioux chef. What ingredients do you need?”

“Mum brought me over the recipe earlier, it’s on the table.” He moved towards the kitchen to join her then paused, panic suddenly rising back up: “Wait!”

“ _Spaghetti Bolognese: A Recipe for Romance!”_ Jemma read aloud, dark red lips turning up at the corners once more, “Oh my.”

“Um, I think she made it for an old boyfriend once, that’s why –”

“There’s little hearts all over it.”

“Yeah, you know how flirty my mum can be, she probably wrote it during her pub quiz phase, she had plenty of blokes around –”

“ _This_ one says LF 4 JS,” she turned the paper towards him for him to see, her bottom lip between her teeth, “did she write that or did you?”

“ _Simmons_.” Fitz groaned, snatching the incriminating note page from her hand, “ _Please._ ”

“I thought we agreed you were going to call me Jemma from now on, Fitz. Unless you want me to start calling you _Leopold_.” Her tongue rolled the ‘l’ gently. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Fitz thought he might explode.

“Fine, Jemma, please, just stop.” He sighed, hand coming up to clutch his forehead, “I cleaned behind the tv earlier. I’m on the brink here.”

She laughed, delighted, before pushing herself up onto the kitchen table and swinging her feet.

“Alright, pour me a big glass of wine and get cooking. I’ll leave off.”

“ _Thank you_.” He complied as fast as he could and passed her the wine, suppressing a shiver when their fingers brushed around the glass’ stem.

He knew this mood on Jemma, rare as it was. She was all playfulness, wild and teasing. It usually came on after a long shift and late-night movie marathon, or during one of their countless Scrabble battles in his hospital room, and he was always left playing catch up. He felt as though he was on a high wire, desperately trying not to fall.

The way Jemma watched him though, as he rolled up his sleeves and prepped the worktop, made the fall seem very, very tempting.

They cooked together in peaceful harmony; or rather, Fitz cooked while Jemma read out the recipe in a terrible Scottish accent, causing him to almost chop his finger off while laughing. He commiserated with her as she listed off the twenty or so stupid things her Consultant at the hospital had asked her to do, cringed at a bad patient story and asked careful questions about her afternoon reading.

They argued fiercely over what his mum had meant by ‘whatever vegetables you like’ (“Why do you even _have_ turnips? What are you making? A 13th century peasant stew?”) before having a spaghetti-throwing contest to see when it was done.

By the time they sat down to eat, Fitz felt as though he was floating on air, giddy from good talk and laughter and way the red of Jemma’s lipstick contrasted with her pale skin in his low-lit kitchen, Simmons having set about to create ‘mood lighting’ while he plated up their meals.

“Careful with the spaghetti Fitz, that’s a new shirt isn’t it?” Jemma asked coyly, twirling her own pasta slowly around on her fork.

“How do you know that?”

“I keep a detailed list of every single one of your outfits,” she deadpanned, “and the label’s still attached.”

Fitz groaned as Jemma cackled merrily, before standing up to fetch his scissors. She came around behind his seat, pulling at the back of his shirt collar. A sudden static shock shot ran through him as her fingers touched the nape of his neck.

“Hold still,” she murmured, then quickly leant forward and snipped off the shirt’s tag. Her hand stayed where it was for a moment before her index finger moved slowly, excruciatingly, to brush a light circle at the base of his hair.

“I think it’s nice,” she said quietly, “that you made an effort. And the shirt is nice, too, it matches your eyes.”

“Yeah?” Fitz croaked in response, then cleared his throat hastily, a tell-tale blush creeping inevitably down from the tips of his ears, “Um, thanks. Er, I think you look nice, too. The dress I mean.”

“I have a confession to make.” Jemma’s voice was low, secretive, her other fingers moving up now to scratch gently at his hair, still stood behind him, “The dress is new as well. I _might_ have been a tad nervous about tonight. Not enough to buy half a Yankee candle shop and deep-clean my oven, but still.”

“Oh.” Reluctant as he was to do anything to stop Jemma’s gentle caress, Fitz turned his head to look up her, concerned, “You don’t have to feel nervous around me, Jemma. Ever.”

For a moment, Simmons said nothing, her eyes roaming his face, expression unreadable, “Yeah?” she asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, in that case...”

And then she was kissing him.

The angle was awkward, and he put them out of synch for a moment as he gave a strangled gasp of surprise, but once he’d recovered they settled into a gentle rhythm, impossibly tender. Fitz’s whole body was on fire, his blood boiling, an unbelievable heat flowing through him and up against the burning touch of Jemma’s mouth, moving carefully against his own.

Slowly, Jemma pulled back, her eyes opening gradually, a blissful smile on her face. Fitz stared up at her in wonder, mouth opening and closing like an infatuated goldfish.

“Was that okay?” Jemma asked softly, moving from behind him to stand by the side of his chair. She pulled her hair behind her ears, betraying her nerves. Fitz moved hastily to soothe them.

“More than, yeah, it was more than okay.” He nodded vehemently, reaching up to grab Jemma’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly, “You can do that whenever you want.”

“Oh good.” The playfulness had come back into Simmons’ face, the tension easing as she leant over him again, stopping before her lips touched his, “That’ll be most of the time, then.”

++

Bolognese forgotten, they moved to the sofa, exploring one another carefully. Fitz’s worries about inexperience melted away as they kissed; there was something instinctive, almost familiar, about the press of Jemma’s mouth against his, the moans and sighs that escaped her as he grazed his teeth against her bottom lip, or tentatively moved his tongue to dance against hers.

Everything was soft, easy, light – yet beneath the surface he felt a passion burning, bubbling as hands began to wonder lower and lower, her nails scratching at the skin at the back of his raised shirt, her breasts pressing with prejudice into his fluttering hands, running along her sides to take her all in.

Bit by bit, they moved from side by side until he was on top of her, using an elbow to support his weight as his free hand gripped the curve of her waist, peppering kisses along her delicate collarbone.

“ _Fitz,_ ” Jemma moaned, her voice breathless and ridiculously hot, hands buried in his hair to hold him in place as he moved up to her ear, sliding his teeth along a lobe, “ _God, Fitz.”_

Her legs came up suddenly, wrapping around his waist as she dragged herself against him, creating a thrill that made Fitz pause, eyes crossing as sensations zinged up and around him, lust and longing coursing through his body so intensely he felt almost blinded by it. He panted heavily, elbow stuttering as he automatically pressed back against her hips, trying to maintain the glorious friction.

“ _Yes.”_ Jemma sighed, turning to catch his lips with hers, heated and messy, “ _Yes, Fitz.”_

 _“Jemma.”_ He almost growled, inciting another breathy moan. _God_ he was going to explode, it was too much –

Jemma’s hand snaked up to begin unbuttoning his shirt as she murmured affirmations nonsensically, words that sounded like his name again, mixed with whispers of _want you_ and _waited so long._

Unexpected, a cold wash of clarity ran through him. Shocked, he pushed himself off Jemma as quickly as he could, instantly bereft of her warmth.

Jemma sat up hastily too, adjusting the straps of her dress and breathing hard.

“Fitz? What happened?”

“I- I can’t…” Fitz tried to calm himself down, turning away from Jemma’s tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips, arousal still surging through him. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Fitz…” Jemma edged forward tentatively, a slender hand reaching out to touch his lightly, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think - if this - if you’re not sure if you want –”

“No! Jemma I _do_ want, so much… it’s just, “He sighed, bracing himself, “I’ve never done … that … before.”

“Oh.” Jemma paused, her expression turning from concerned to considering as she looked down at their now joined hands, “ _Oh_ , of course, I’m so sorry, I should have realised.”

“ _I’m_ the one that should be sorry! I – god, Jemma, you don’t deserve – ”

Jemma hushed him gently, hand squeezing his; “This, tonight, it’s all been a bit quick, hasn’t it?” she looked up at him and smiled understandingly. Fitz nodded slowly in agreement.

“I think maybe, I – we, actually, I hope, have wanted this for so long – ”

“ _So_ long.” Fitz would have been embarrassed if he wasn’t so eager to reassure Jemma. She flashed him a quick, toothy smile before continuing;

“I think maybe we just got a bit ahead of ourselves. Rushing to make up for lost time.” Fitz nodded again, relief flooding through him. _Of course_ Jemma understood, she always seemed to know his mind, sometimes even before he did himself.

“So we should take a step back, take it slow.” Jemma stated, a question still implicit in her tone, “Yeah?”

“ _Yes._ Seriously Jemma, I’m so sorry – ”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, Fitz,” her hand reached up to press against his chest where his heart still beat rapidly in the aftermath of their lust-filled kisses and the anxiety of the last few moments, “I really ought to have thought. And besides,” her hand trailed up further, coming to cup his jaw, “I think it sounds quite nice, taking it slow. Going on dates, letting me woo you.”

Fitz chuffed out a laugh, looking deep into Jemma’s warm, wonderful eyes, “As long as I get to woo you back.”

“Oh, of course. But for now, how about we eat this incredible bolognese I’ve heard so much about? Do you think it’ll still taste alright warmed up?”

“I hope so, a lot of effort went into that, Simmons. If you weren’t such a good kisser I’d be furious, distracting me from such an artfully made meal.”

Jemma laughed, shaking her head fondly, “It’s very difficult to take your scolding seriously when you’re covered in lipstick.”

“What?! Oh, _bloody hell!”_ Jemma’s continued laughter followed him as Fitz rushed to the bathroom, groaning when he saw just how far the lipstick had spread across his face. There was even some in his _eyebrows._ How?

Once he’d managed to successfully scrub off the scarlet streaks, he headed back into the main room to find that the sofa cushions had been carefully straightened out. Jemma stood in the kitchen, chatting animatedly to an enraptured Fury, purring violently at her feet as she placed one of their abandoned meals in the microwave. _Thank god he’d cleaned it._

“Oh, that’s a shame, that was a lovely shade on you.” Jemma called, tapping the buttons to reheat the food, “Do you want to pick out a film while I sort this out? Carry on your media education?”

“Sure,” Fitz said softly, caught up in the domestic scene in front of him, “what was it you wanted to watch next? Pacific Rim?”

Jemma grinned, “Giant monsters and robots, lovely.”

They ate their dinner on the sofa, curled up under a tartan blanket with Fury pacing on the back rest in an attempt to steal their food.

Pausing the film, the pair cleared up the meal; Jemma washing the dishes while Fitz made microwave popcorn, lightly debating back and forth the merits of sweet versus salted.

Once the popcorn was made, they settled back down under the blanket, Fury collapsing into Simmons’ lap and purring blissfully.

Then, after the film was over, Fitz sought out a sketchpad so they could design their own Jaegers, Jemma lazily suggesting more and more outlandish features to add, her head resting on his shoulder. Yawning, she looked up at the clock.

“It’s after one, I should go home.” She murmured, voice tinged with regret. Fitz hesitated, steeling himself.

“Stay.” he said, quietly, “Stay here.”

Jemma smiled slowly, warm and content, “Okay. I will.”

And so she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating twice in just over 24 hours? Madness. I am living the vida lockdown.  
> Thank you again, so much, for reading. A few translations for you:
> 
> 'Heinz variety' is a bingo term referring to the number 57, as in 57 varieties of Heinz products. I am very pleased I got to use it.  
> Bit of a pie = idiot  
> Canny = smart  
> Scran = food  
> Skelp = hit/swipe
> 
> Shout out to my beloved Scottish friends, who talk like that all the time, forcing me to learn Glaswegian slang.  
> Other fun facts:  
> \- The Bolognese recipe is based on one I used to make before I turned vegan. Works just as well with a sh!t ton of mushroom.  
> \- My husband helped come up with the terms for Fitz's mum's death stare. Any more ideas? Comment below!  
> \- My mum genuinely once called me just to tell me cheese is an aphrodisiac. Go figure.  
> \- My own cat cameos as the shy tabby, because he is very shy and I literally saw him run away from a butterfly earlier today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were now settling into their fourth month together and, in Fitz’s humble opinion, the boyfriend-girlfriend agreement was going very well. 
> 
> He was once again seeing Simmons every day, but instead of asking him to try and memorise lists of common words or solve increasingly complex mazes, she was instead seeking kisses and inviting him to try new restaurants, go to concerts, walk through parks and around museums, hand in hand and stumbling over each other’s words like over-eager puppies, buoyant and curious to hear and say more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fluff and angst. So much fluff and only a wee bit of angst, but still.

_He was stood behind a glass window or door, looking out to where Jemma stood, hair whipping frenziedly around her. She had her back to him, facing the wind and sky. She was going to fall._

_“Jemma!” he called._

_Glacial, she turned; her eyes were red-rimmed, her skin too pale. As he watched, her forehead became slowly brushed with gold, her blue-tinged lips suddenly sparkling._

_“Jemma?” he called again, confused and petrified._

_A great black mass swirled around her, pulling her away from him._

Fitz woke with a start, vision bleary and disorientated by a dream that was quickly fading away. It had been windy, and Jemma had been there, hadn’t she? She was painted gold…

The world around him was slowly coming into focus. It was raining outside; a steady, soothing drone. Fitz turned over in bed, coming face-to-face with a gently snoring Fury, curled up on his neighbouring pillow.

“You’re not Simmons.” He muttered, frowning. Fury cracked open his one working eye, conveying a sense of extreme _well, duh_ -ness _._

Fitz sat up, scratching gently at the back of his head as he got his bearings, then heaved himself out of bed and across the room in search of his wayward bedfellow.

He found her in the kitchen, singing quietly to herself as she cracked eggs into a mixing jug. She glanced up as he stumbled drowsily towards her and smiled brightly.

“Oh hello you. Good timing, these are nearly ready to put in the pan. Or I suppose bad timing, depending on how you look at it. I was about to come and coax you out of bed with a mega-mug of tea. It’s on the table.”

Forgoing the tea for the time being, Fitz padded forwards to curl himself around Jemma’s back, wrapping his arms around her waist as she began to whisk the batter forming in the jug. He inhaled the sweet smell of her hair before dropping a kiss to her shoulder and settling his chin down upon it, watching her work.

“You’re much nicer to wake up to than the Director. What are you doing in here destroying my kitchen so early? It’s _Sunday_ , you nutter.”

Jemma hummed in amusement, tilting her head slightly so that her soft cheek scratched affectionately against his stubbled one, “It’s not that early; it’s already gone nine, and we have lots to do today.” She sighed, turning slightly out of Fitz’s embrace to look out the kitchen window, “Although we might have to adjust our plans slightly, if this rain doesn’t stop soon.”

Fitz dropped a few more haphazard kisses to Simmons’ shoulder before releasing her to fetch his tea and properly assess the sky outside. It was a swirl of miserable purple and grey, the rain heavier than it had first sounded in the dull warmth of the bedroom.

“Yeah, doesn’t look like the best day to be on a boat.” He tutted and shrugged, “Maybe it’s just as well, I don’t really fancy negotiating the canals with you as a captain. You’d probably go all mad-pirate on me.”

Jemma chuckled, eyes fixed on where she was now slowing pouring the completed pancake batter into a frying pan; “Maybe not a pirate, but perhaps a Navy Admiral, to get you ship-shape.” She looked up at him, teasing, “Can’t be doing with a sloppy first mate. Could you pass me the spatula, please?”

Fitz complied, then set about fetching plates, cutlery and their preferred toppings: golden syrup for him, fresh fruit for Simmons. Breakfast prep complete, he leant back on the counter to watch his girlfriend artfully flip a pancake, her wrist twisting with practised ease.

In the three months or so since he’d first cooked her dinner, the bolognese proving to indeed be a recipe for romance, Fitz had discovered a lot of wonderful things about Jemma Simmons.

She truly was a terrible dinner chef, but she excelled at breakfast foods. Her pristine approach to her professional pursuits did not apply to her home life, and his flat was slowly filling up with half-read books and abandoned cardigans. She snored when she’d drunk too much wine and had an unnerving habit of carrying on conversations when she was on the loo, or worse, when he was. She seemed to love homework more than life itself and kept odd hours to balance all the directions her job and studies seemed to pull her in, but she still somehow managed to make plenty of time for him.

She also malted nearly as much hair as the cat, would go a good half an hour out of her way in her search for the perfect slice of victoria sponge, and insisted on assigning everything in her life nice, neat labels.

Like their relationship, for instance.

That first night when she’d stayed over, Fitz had again woken with a start to find Jemma climbing back into his bed, lifting one of his arms to give herself room to burrow into him. He yelped in shock.

“Bloody hell, Simmons, you’re _freezing_.”

“It’s cold out there.” Jemma’s reply was muffled, her head pressed deep into his chest. Her frozen limbs were moving to wrap octopus-like around his own heavy, warm ones. He braced himself as a deep-chilled foot brushed against his calf where his pyjama trousers had ridden up.

“Christ, it’s like cuddling an ice cube.” Her foot kicked against him, lightly.

“A remarkably adorable yet whip-smart ice cube.” She corrected.

“Well of course, I was going t’say.” He grinned sleepily, resigning himself to his fate as a human heat pad and tugging Jemma closer, “And I’m a super-hot man, in all senses of the word.”

“Oh definitely,” Jemma moved her head away from where it was being smooshed near his armpit, and Fitz looked down to meet her heavy-lidded gaze, “a girl could get used to this, you know. Come the winter months, I’ll drape you over my shoulders like a boyfriend-parka hybrid. You can protect me from the cold and QA my lab work at the same time.”

Fitz’s heart leapt in his chest. He was suddenly very awake. Tentatively, he pulled himself away to look at Jemma properly. She huffed but met his gaze, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

“Boyfriend?”

Simmons gave him a wide, warm smile, “Well, yes, I should think so. Unless you thought this was just a one-time thing? Seduce me with your mum’s pasta recipe, get a nice snog and a sleepover out of me then never call again? Gosh, that’s positively Machiavellian.”

“I – _no_ , of course not. Just, surprised, that’s all. Didn’t think you’d want to put a label on things so soon.”

“I like labels, they keep things organised amidst the chaos of life.” Jemma said solemnly. “And that pasta really was rather good.” Her smile spread even wider, a heat coming into her gaze, “As was the snogging.”

“It was good snogging.” He agreed amicably, letting his gaze flit across her face, lily-silver skin making it so that she seemed to glow in the darkness of the room, “I don’t suppose you’d want to do some more, to seal the deal, so to speak? If we’re going to be boyfriend and girlfriend,” he had to pause for a moment to accommodate his ever-growing grin, “I think we should shake on it. With our mouths.”

Jemma burst out laughing, jubilant, “Oh _smooth,_ Dr Fitz. What a line.”

Fitz took her all in, lovely in his too-big spare pyjamas, shaking with mirth.

“Did it work?” he asked hopefully.

Jemma sobered slightly, assessing him. “You know, I think it did.”

And she pulled him down for a myriad of tender, affectionate kisses, only interrupted once or twice by their continued furtive, joyous laughter.

They were now settling into their fourth month together and, in Fitz’s humble opinion, the boyfriend-girlfriend agreement was going _very_ well.

He was once again seeing Simmons every day, but instead of asking him to try and memorise lists of common words or solve increasingly complex mazes, she was instead seeking kisses and inviting him to try new restaurants, go to concerts, walk through parks and around museums, hand in hand and stumbling over each other’s words like over-eager puppies, buoyant and curious to hear and say more.

He couldn’t comprehend just how much _joy_ his life contained now. He had thought he was at least content, before. He had their casual, easy, friendship, his shop and invention side-line, weekly tea with his mum and the odd pint with Hunter whenever he was actually around to have one. He had awoken every day, not necessarily happy, but fine with his lot in life.

But now when he woke up in the mornings, there was Simmons. Simmons, awake before him more often than not, reading a journal or playing quietly with Fury. Simmons, filled with ideas and questions and seemingly boundless affection.

Whenever they were close, her hand would find his. Her head would fall against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his lips, his forehead, his arm as he reached around where she was curled up against him to grab a new pen, scrawling new inventions and designs together, late into the night.

He was hardly sleeping. Unconsciousness would mean depriving himself of precious time to speak to Jemma, to embrace her, to absorb everything there was to know about her. Yet sleepless as he was, he’d never felt more awake, more in tune with the world around him. He was drunk on it, on her, on the life they were slowly building together, no longer separately but as a team.

In fact, that morning was the latest he had slept in since their first night together. He was up earlier than usual weekday mornings now to share breakfast, then to walk with Jemma through the city, before splitting off: him to head to his shop, her to the library or the university, or the hospital where she was still working part-time.

They were both gloriously, hideously happy.

“I’ve never had this,” she’d told him, lying side by side in the park near his shop on a sunny Thursday afternoon, “I’ve never had the time to just… _be_ with someone. Like this. Or not in a long time, anyway. I had a friend, once. But we never…” she leant forward, brushing her fingers slowly against his bottom lip before dancing up to trace the contours of his face, “we didn’t have a chance to have any real peace.”

“I haven’t either,” he near-whispered back, “not that I can remember. I think I’d remember this, though. Even if I forgot everything all over again, I’d remember this.”

A sheen of tears had suddenly risen in Jemma’s eyes, but she waved off Fitz’s noises of concern, “It’s okay. I’m just happy.” She smiled, eyes still wet but adoring, “I’m _so_ happy Fitz, here with you.”

She turned her face back up towards the cloudless blue sky, wistful, “I can’t quite explain it. It’s just … before, it felt like I was holding my breath, all the time. I did it for so long, I didn’t even notice anymore, it was just how things had to be.” She turned back to him, smiling at where his hand was rubbing soothingly down her bare arm, “But here, now, with you, I can finally let go.”

Overwhelmed, Fitz surged forward, kissing her fervently. He wanted to convey, in the press of his lips against hers, how grateful he was to have found her, to be saved by her, to be part of her life. He wanted to tell her that he would always, always be there for her, if she let him. That she would never have to feel that way ever again.

“ _Excuse me._ There are _children_ in this park.”

They broke apart, punch drunk, then turned in unison to find a shrewd woman stood above them looking scandalised. They simultaneously turned bright pink, rushing to gather their things while spouting numerous, nonsense apologies over one another.

Once they were clear of the woman’s haughty, horrified gaze, they had taken off running, howling with glee and triumph, utterly free.

Now, Jemma flopped the last pancake onto the waiting stack, looking pleased with herself.

“There.” She said firmly, turning to grin at Fitz, still half dazed from his daydreaming, “Breakfast is served.”

They took their respective seats at the table as Fitz’s stomach gave a long drawn out growl. He flushed, “Sorry, I think it can sense the impending pancakes.”

Jemma smiled again, “Well, dig in then, I need your full focus today. I’ve had an idea for what we can do instead of the boat trip.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes. I think we should start work on those drones of yours.” She popped a forkful of strawberries and pancake into her mouth with a flourish. Fitz leant back in his chair, considering.

“D’you think they’re ready? I’m not sure about the thermal conductors, there’s still a chance they could overheat.” He pointed his own fork at Jemma, smiling, “Not that I don’t trust your adjustments to the sulfur hexafluoride – which are brilliant, by the way –“

“Thank you.”

“ – it’s just, if anything _does_ go wrong, the workshop at the back of FZZZT probably isn’t robust enough to handle it. And I don’t think Mr Paver next door would be too happy if he went to work tomorrow to find I’d accidentally blown-up his shop.”

“Ah, yes. I do see your point.” Jemma tilted her head to the side, thinking hard, “I suppose there’s the university labs. I’m sure they’ll let me borrow some space in the engineering department. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a bit of a name in certain scientific communities.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, that hardly _ever_ comes up.”

“I am very modest.” Jemma agreed, poker faced. “Well, if that works for you, I’ll put in a call. It should be nice and quiet, too. Any post-grads working over the summer will probably be at home nursing hangovers, as it’s a Sunday.”

“That’ll be handy, no one to hear me scream when you inevitably drive me mad with your backseat driving.”

“Excuse me! You said yourself the backscatter networking specs were on the rudimentary side. And I still think we should try and build a secondary analogue system.”

“That’s a bit luddite of you, Simmons. The aim is to make them as compact as possible remember, I don’t want to add in a load of hardware we won’t need just for the sake of it.”

“Best to be prepared.” Jemma murmured, oddly dark, before changing tact; “Anyway, if I’m driving you so batty, why did you ask for my help?”

“Because you’re a certified genius and I value your opinion! I didn’t think you’d try to bogart the whole project. I don’t go around telling you how to dissect rat brains.”

“You would if you weren’t so squeamish.”

Fitz mock-scowled at her, brattish. Simmons’ face fell suddenly, forehead creasing in concern; “Do you really think I’m trying to take over? I’m sorry, I know I can be a bit overzealous sometimes, and I wouldn’t want to step on your toes. It’s just so _thrilling_ to work with someone else at my level.”

“No, not really, of course not. I love working with you Jem, you know that.” She still seemed unsure, so he reached a hand across the table to squeeze hers, “Like you said, it’s amazing to find someone at the same level. You’re perfect for bouncing ideas off.”

“Like a wall?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant. _Just_ like a wall. A smart, accomplished, incredibly _sexy_ wall.” Jemma finally relented, snickering as he brought her hand up for a quick peck before returning to his half-finished breakfast.

They ate the rest of their meal peacefully, or as near to peace as they were capable of, easy as it was to complete a thought the other had started, building on it and shedding a different light. They continued to bicker-flirt-brainstorm as Fitz washed up the dishes, Jemma making a second batch of tea.

“All I’m saying is, if Mace Windu can have a purple light sabre, I can have one that makes a Crash Bandicoot noise.” Fitz grumbled, washing his hands on the dish towel Simmons handed him.

“Fine, if you insist, but it won’t be as satisfying as that usual _schwom, shchwom_.” Jemma slid a teaspoon through the air like a Jedi warrior, “And how are we supposed to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies when your weapon’s making video game noises?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.” Fitz hummed, leaning forward to kiss Jemma chastely before tweaking her nose, “C’mon then, you’ve got me excited about getting back to building something with my bare hands.”

Jemma wriggled her eyebrows, smirking.

“Oh, none of your _filth,_ please, Dr Simmons. Or not right now, anyway. You alright to ring the university while I get dressed?”

“Excellent plan, Dr Fitz.”

He kissed her again, lightly, then headed back to the bedroom, bumbling with excitement.

The drones had been buzzing around in his head for over a year now, and he was eager to take them off paper and put them out into the world. If he managed to get them built the way he wanted, they could be used for so many wonderful things: assessing building structures, archaeological excavations, even search and rescue.

He hummed merrily to himself as he got ready for the day, ignoring Fury, who was watching him from the bed with clear contempt, still unused to his owner’s new cheeriness. Foolhardy from joy, Fitz even bent to kiss the cat between the ears before heading back into the main room.

Jemma was on the phone, looking fretful, “No, no of course, I’ll be there right away. I’ll need Piper on prep, tell her to get the same equipment we used in Bosnia.” She looked up at where Fitz was now stood, crestfallen, “I need to go. Yes, I will. Just give me five minutes, please.” She hung up, nibbling her bottom lip anxiously.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, the hospital needs me.” Jemma stepped forward, placing her arms around his shoulders and looking miserable, “I was really looking forward to getting into the lab with you, too.”

“No, I get it, if they need you, they need you.” Fitz sighed, returning Jemma’s loose embrace, “It sounded pretty serious. Equipment from Bosnia? Is this something to do with your old field work?”

Jemma shifted uncomfortably, “Yes, something like that.”

She broke away from him and headed quickly into the bedroom to gather her things. Fitz trailed after her, concerned.

One particularly surprising thing he had learnt about Jemma in the past few months was that she had worked, for a short time, as an army doctor. The revelation had come one morning when she had offhandedly mentioned a mission in Peru before looking panicked and trying desperately to change the subject. She was unnaturally cagey about the whole thing and Fitz didn’t want to push until she was ready, but he was desperately curious.

It hadn’t seemed completely unreasonable that Jemma, ever inquisitive about the world around her, fiercely ambitious and driven by an all-encompassing desire to help as many people as possible would join the army, as strange as the faceless, machine-like system seemed to him in comparison to the multi-coloured world of Simmons’ character. But she skirted his questions about her experiences out ‘in the field’ with firm rebuffs, and this reticent, hard-mouthed Jemma was so at odds with how she acted the rest of the time that Fitz felt almost fearful whenever it came up.

Still, he trusted her to tell him when she was ready. So in the meantime, he just perched on the end of his bed as she swiftly pulled off her light summer blouse to replace it with a more business-professional alternative. Fitz flushed at the quick flash of skin and the outline of Simmons’ practical sports bra, sensible yet oh-so enticing, as she changed.

But then again, the skin hidden beneath her top was yet another clue to the gaps in his knowledge of Jemma’s life story.

When (tentatively, then with extreme over-eagerness) they had begun to peel back a layer of clothing between heated kisses, a fortnight into their time together, Simmons had abruptly stopped his hand where it had been hurriedly undoing the buttons of her floral printed shirt.

“Wait, wait!” She’d half moaned, half cried, her tone a confused mixture of panic and arousal.

Fitz froze, brain not functioning as fast he’d have liked, before pulling himself up and away from a now obviously anxiety-ridden Simmons.

“Jemma? What’s wrong?”

“I – oh no, oh _Fitz_. I’m so sorry.” She placed her head in her hands, shaking, “I need to tell you something.”

Fitz hovered, unsure. He wanted to reach out and comfort her physically but sensed that it wasn’t the right move in the moment. Instead, he used his words, low and soothing: “It’s okay, Jem, it’s okay. You can tell me anything, alright? Whenever you’re ready.”

Still shaking, Jemma slowly uncovered her face, turning to him without meeting his eye.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.” Her breath was coming in quick pants, tear falling rapidly.

“ _Jemma, Jem it’s okay._ ” He murmured, finally reaching out to gently touch her shoulder.

“It’s not, it’s not, it’s _not._ ” Jemma wailed frantically, “I can’t do it, it’s too much.”

“Hey,” Fitz said steadily, “you don’t need to do anything. It’s okay, Jem. Trust me, alright? I’m right here.”

Jemma inhaled slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth, still trembling, eyes now closed in concentration. When she opened them again, they were filled with steely resolve. Looking straight at Fitz, she begun to unbutton her shirt herself.

“Jemma?”

She unwrapped herself slowly, all vulnerability yet unbearable strength, before taking Fitz’s hand and placing it carefully on the skin of her stomach. His fingers founded a puckered scar, making him gasp.

“God, Jem, what _happened?_ ”

“I was shot.” She said simply. Fitz gaped at her, trying to temper the overwhelming bewilderment and _rage_ now coursing through him.

He took a deep calming breath, nodding at Jemma encouragingly to go on. This was her story to tell.

“It happened over two years ago, now,” she continued, lip quivering, “I – they – it wasn’t supposed to happen. They’d warned me, but my friend was in danger and I had to help her. It ruined the person, to see me hurt. And it ruined me a little bit, too.” She smiled ruefully, but her eyes were still dull and sad.

“The person,” Fitz said, voice low, desperate to hold in his anger, “The person who shot you? It ruined _them?_ ”

“Yes.” Jemma said, voice tight. There were still tear trailing down her cheeks, “And it shouldn’t have, I forgave him. I understood. He was just doing what needed to be done and…” she took a deep shuddering breath, “he was unwell, at the time. His mind had been through a lot.”

“What needed to be done – _Christ_ Jemma,” Fitz’s hands reached up into his hair. He was overwhelmed, this _was_ too much, he needed to – to what? He breathed in again, lowering his hands to take Jemma’s where they rested limply on her lap, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Jemma shuddered violently, then began to sob, falling against him in a way that seemed utterly helpless. Fitz gladly embraced her, holding onto her tight as she continued to weep with abandon.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He murmured, kissing the top of her head fiercely, his own tears beginning to fall, “I’ve got you, Jemma. It’ll never happen again, I swear. I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again.”

Slowly, Jemma’s crying subsided, her fingers clutching onto him tightly even as her breathing steadied. An unexpected yet piercing ache shot through Fitz like its own bullet, leaving him reeling. She was so heartbreakingly strong.

He took a shaking breath, placing aside the millions of questions now running around his head to instead continue to give whatever comfort he could; “It’s okay.” he pulled her closer her to him again, rocking her gently as her limbs fell loosely against his, exhausted, “It’s okay, Jemma. I’m right here. I’m never going to leave you; I promise it’ll be okay. I love you.” He froze again, horrified, “Oh _no._ ”

Tear-streaked and trembling, Jemma pulled away from him again, but now she was smiling; a bright, true, smile; “Oh, _Fitz._ ”

He had vertigo from the sudden shift, everything was a mess – he’d rushed into it, it was absolutely the _worst_ time to tell her. Yes the words had been dancing on the tip of his tongue near-constantly, but _still; they’d only been dating two weeks._

“I- I didn’t mean to – “

“ – _Fitz – “_

“I take it back, I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s way too soon – “

“Don’t you dare!” Jemma’s voice was stern, her hand coming up to abruptly cover his mouth and put a stop to his rambling; “Don’t you dare take that back.”

She withdrew her hand slowly. Fitz blinked, mentally winded.

“Um, okay, I won’t.”

“Good. Because I love you too.” Jemma said, firmly.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Um, yeah, that’s good. That’s very good.” The world around them faded away, the horror and sadness of the last few minutes evaporating, if only temporarily, as the weight of this new, wonderful revelation settled down upon them.

Slowly, tenderly, _lovingly,_ Jemma leant forward to kiss him. The kiss was a balm to soothe all ills, a declaration, a promise. Fitz felt tears well up inside him yet again, a cocktail of grief and joy, heady and all encompassing.

They had talked more about Jemma’s wounds then and later, mostly in the dark of his room where it felt secret and safe. He had even, cautiously, asked about the person who had taken the shot.

“What happened to him? Is he … is he still around?”

There was a long, heavy pause before Jemma replied, “No. He’s gone now. I came back from a field operation one day, and he’d … he’s gone.”

The finality of her words told their own story, and Fitz sat with this for a moment, trying to pick apart how it made him feel. A part of him, a loud and terrifying part, was savagely happy about it. He thought that he had it in him to tear the man apart, ripping him limb from limb, for hurting Jemma.

But he knew, or had at least deduced, from the little Simmons had told him, that the story was more complicated than that, and that the shooter had a meant a lot to her. She was mourning him, Fitz sensed, in almost the same way she mourned what he had taken from her. It was a complicated and ever-changing beast, this monster from her past.

Jemma had assured him that that chapter of her life was over, but had also admitted, a little guiltily, that she’d stayed in contact with her unit, and occasionally worked as a consultant for them – on what, Fitz could not really fathom.

He broke off from his simmering reverie when he realised that Jemma had finished getting ready, hovering in front of him, her expression sorrowful.

“I really am sorry about today, Fitz. But if you want to, you should get started on the drones.” She held out her university ID, “I got permission for us to use the space, before I was called in.”

He took the pass reluctantly, but managed a smile, “Yeah okay, maybe. And don’t worry, I understand.”

He stood up as Jemma turned to stroke Fury goodbye, speaking quietly to him as the cat rolled and stretched into her touch.

Slowly, Fitz trailed behind Simmons as she headed for the door, grabbing her coat from the rack and tapping down the pockets. She grabbed his spare key off the hall table before turning to him with a gentle smile, “I’ll call you later? And I’ll pick up takeaway on my way back, you can tell me all about your progress while we eat our body weight in spring rolls.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said, attempting another smile before hesitating, unable to resist asking the question that had plagued him since she’d first got off her call; “what you’re doing today, it is safe, isn’t it? You’ll be careful?”

Jemma gave him a genuine smile before stepping forward to kiss him goodbye. Her lips met his firmly, but then she pushed forward again, tracing the seam of his mouth until it opened. Fitz met her in a dancing, heated swirl of teeth and tongue that felt almost sinfully good, a shared, stuttered moan filling the air between them.

Jemma’s phone vibrated urgently in her jeans’ pocket, forcing them to finally break apart, breathing heavily. Working on autopilot, Fitz’s hands had come to rest on the delectable curve of Simmons’ bum, and he released it quickly but unwillingly.

“It’ll be safe.” Jemma confirmed, her cheeks a patchy red and irises still dark, “And I’ll be back before you know it. Do try and go to the lab, Fitz, if you can.” She pecked his lips again, quickly, “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“Yep, love you too.” He sighed, raising a hand as she opened the door, wrinkling her nose with a smile before she left.

++

Jemma reeled back at the forceful wind that announced the arrival of the cloaked Zephyr. It regained visibility as it landed, the hangar door dropping open to reveal a waiting Daisy, bouncing excitedly on her heels.

“Oh my god Simmons, _finally._ ” She stepped forward to embrace the doctor tightly as she came aboard the plane, the hangar sealing itself slowly behind them. “You’re lucky we got the call about the new inhuman or I’d have had to stage an emergency myself.” She pulled back, suddenly stern, “You’ve been holding out on me. Hunter says you and Fitz are like, inseparable again. Is it weird? I feel like it’s gotta be weird.”

Jemma nodded fervently, moving to grab a nearby rail as the plane took off.

“Oh yes, very. But I think we’re making progress.” She sighed, meeting Daisy’s curious look with a conflicted half-smile, “It’s actually all rather lovely, really, but until he gets his memories back –”

“If he does.”

“Yes alright, if,” Jemma sighed again, pressing her free hand to her forehead with a grimace, “it’s so difficult to lie to him.”

“Yeah.” Daisy murmured sympathetically, “I’ll bet.”

“But then actually, that’s not strictly true, sometimes it’s too _easy._ He’s so carefree now, not knowing everything that’s happened to us. The weight of the world’s been lifted. If I’m not careful, I get lost in it.” She bit her lip, hesitating before confessing; “Part of me hopes he never remembers. It’ll devastate him.”

“Hey, you said this was the best way to do it. Trust yourself. After his last psychic-split – “

“Dissociative episode.”

“– okay fine, after that, you thought you lost him forever, right? That the machine had broken his brain?”

Jemma nodded again, still worrying her lip.

“But then _you found a way_ _to fix it._ Because you’re brilliant, and a genius, and there is no way in hell that you and Fitz aren’t meant to be together. Even if he’s stuck forever thinking you’re just a super-hot brain doctor with a mysterious past. And yeah, if he reverse- _Memento_ ’s and gets back all the crap that’s happened to us it’ll definitely suck, but he’ll get to remember the awesome stuff, too. Like all of his friends. And the spaceship he built. And the fact that you’re _married._ ”

To Daisy’s relief, Jemma grinned in spite of herself. She continued, determined, “He loves you, Simmons. He always will, no matter what”

Jemma looked wistful, but she was still smiling. “No matter what. You’re right. Thank you, Daisy.”

She drew herself up, clearing her throat before putting on her most business-like tone: “Right then, what was it you said on the phone, there’s evidence that someone in Helsinki has been _shapeshifting?_ How fascinating.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz squinted down at one of Jemma’s annotations on his design specifications for the drones’ dimensional scanner. Her writing was usually easy for him to read, but it became drunk and spidery when she was overexcited, and apparently this particular feature of his blueprints had been a real thrill-ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is smut in this chapter.  
> If that isn't your bag, please scroll from around the word 'Sainsburys' (hot, right?) until the last few lines.
> 
> Thank you x

Fitz squinted down at one of Jemma’s annotations on his design specifications for the drones’ dimensional scanner. Her writing was usually easy for him to read, but it became drunk and spidery when she was overexcited, and apparently this particular feature of his blueprints had been a real thrill-ride.

He gave up on trying to decipher Simmons’ scrawl, placing his screwdriver down on the table and resting his head in his hands with a groan of frustration. He’d been in the lab for over four hours now (the security guard at the gate had waved him through happily as soon as he’d mentioned Simmons’ name) but he had made very little progress.

He tried to convince himself that this was simply because the drones were the most advance tech he’d built in a while. He had after all, been easing himself back into his passion slowly since the accident.

To his mum’s mild horror, he’d reembarked on his engineering journey by first returning to his roots and ‘updating’ all her household appliances, prompting her to start keeping her beloved toaster under lock and key. After a near-violent tussle over an electric whisk, he had finally relented and started sourcing his own scrap.

His gadgets and doodads had almost built themselves since then, his hands working like puppet strings to bring his ever-growing inner world in to the real one, idea by brilliant idea. But the drones were meant to be his _pièce de résistance_ , his first real step back into the scientific community, and he had hit a dead end.

But it was not just that he was daunted by the project he was undertaking. He knew on his more confident days he’d be revelling in his own genius, anticipating all the doors the drones would open for him (perhaps literally? He made mental a note to look into that), and even now he wasn’t really shaken by the concept of failure.

No, the real reason he was stuck was that he was worried about Jemma, and with every minute that she didn’t respond to his carefully crafted, oh-so casual message, his anxiety was increasing tenfold.

He checked his phone, but nothing had changed in the last 30 seconds or so since he’d last looked at it. He clicked again into WhatsApp, but the little ticks confirming his text had sent were still a dull grey, not the blessed bright blue that would indicate that Jemma had at least _seen_ his attempt to reach out to her.

Was that better or worse? Her inactivity could mean she’d just had to switch off her phone, or was too busy to look at it, or maybe even – in a parallel world where Jemma wasn’t scrupulously prepared at all times – her battery had died. But unbidden, a thousand more sinister possibilities swarmed to the forefront of his mind; Simmons in distress, Simmons in danger, Simmons shot again and bleeding out while he’d done nothing to stop it.

 _Don’t be this guy_ he thought to himself fiercely, _don’t do this._

But he was already searching his phone, seeking out the number for the switchboard at the Royal Infirmary. The last of his resolve broke as his thumb hovered over the call button and he brought the phone to his ear, free hand rubbing into his tired eyes as he waited for someone to answer.

“Glasgow Royal Infirmary main switchboard, how can I help you?” A brisk and busy voice answered, causing him to hesitate once more.

“Hello?”

He needed to know.

“Sorry, yes, hello, I was wondering if you could tell me which unit Dr Simmons is working in today?”

“Dr _Simmons?_ ” The voice turned sceptical, “I’ve never heard of a Dr Simmons. Are you sure you’ve got the right number?”

Fitz frowned, “Um, yeah. Look, it’s a big hospital, you can’t tell me you know everyone who works there.”

“ _Well_. I’ve worked here thirty years, thank you very much, and I can’t recall ever meeting a Simmons. But I suppose it’s not entirely impossible. How are we spelling that?”

Fitz tried to bottle his frustration, gritting out the letters of Jemma’s surname slowly, but the stubbornness of the woman on the other end of the line was making him want to break something.

“… o … n… s. Right let’s see – oh! _Oh._ Um, one moment, please.” Generic and distinctly un-soothing hold music began to play, further unsettling Fitz. A few moments passed, then suddenly the unhelpful woman was back, speaking hurriedly.

“Ah, Dr Simmons is indisposed at the moment.” Her voice, before overly self-assured and condescending, was now high and wiry. Fitz frowned again.

“Okay. But she is there today?” A beat, then another;

“Yes. Yes of course she is.” Some of the briskness had come back, “But she is _very_ busy and we can’t be taking personal calls while our doctors are on shift. Did you want to leave a message?”

“No! No no, it’s fine, just wanted to check in. Er … thank you.”

The woman hung up without even acknowledging his thanks. Fitz pulled his phone away from his ear to scowl down at it properly.

The call had done nothing to abate his nerves. Downright rudeness aside, there had been something distinctly _off_ about the whole exchange. For one, as ridiculous as the woman’s belief that she somehow knew the names of every single member of staff at her hospital was, if she _had_ met Jemma, there was no way she’d have forgotten her. No one would forget someone that wonderful.

And Jemma was _friendly._ Disconcertingly so, sometimes. Fitz had no doubt she would have made an effort to get to know everyone in her place of employment. She probably baked all the administrative staff wholemeal muffins and made them mugs of tea and remembered all their birthdays. She was just built like that. Even the grumpy switchboard woman would have at least warranted a hello.

He stewed for a moment, then re-unlocked his phone and opened up a search engine. Hesitantly, he typed in Simmons’ name.

This was not the first time he’d done this. When he’d first begun to relearn the world around him, the vastness of the internet had been a source of endless awe. Sat in his hospital bed with a borrowed iPad and a million questions, he’d decided searching for more information about the lovely Dr Simmons who had been taking care of him so well was as good a place as any to start (with the benefit of hindsight, he could see he’d been head over heels even then).

Now again his search results flooded the screen. Here were her published works, her profile on the hospital website, another on _Rate my Doctor_ proclaiming her glowing five-star record. There were a few old articles from the local papers back in her native Sheffield; a solemn-faced but pleased young Simmons posing next to a trophy or certificate for this experiment or that, a horrifying but informative dissertation on cuttlefish published around her eleventh birthday, a list of awards and accolades from her time at Cambridge.

Most intriguingly, to Fitz’s mind anyway, there was even an accreditation for her work with dendrotoxins, but she’d had brushed off all his questions on the subject, saying she’d had help and that, really, she’d just been doing her job.

And what job was that? It fell into the vague abyss of Jemma’s early 20s, in which time she had told him she had been getting her MD and doing independent research, still in Cambridge, before being recruited into the army as a trauma surgeon. For this, after a bit of digging, Fitz found there was only a record of her joining and discharge, but nothing else. Nothing about her getting _shot_ –

Fitz slammed down his phone, now more frustrated than ever. He wasn’t sure what he had hoped to gain from his search. He trusted Jemma, he really, truly did, so why was he digging around like this?

It was that itch again, at once comforting yet compellingly strange, that sense that he must have known her for longer than their now nearly two-year-long relationship, from doctor and patient through to boyfriend and girlfriend, lovestruck best friends and confidantes.

To love someone, to trust someone, to open up to someone as wholeheartedly as he had done to Jemma Simmons had seemed so natural, so wholly magnificent, that it almost didn’t ring true.

_You don’t deserve her._

Fitz started at the sudden, ugly thought. It had seemed to originate not from within his own mind but outside it, a dark, sneering voice that oozed over him like crude oil.

_And she’s lying to you._

“No she isn’t,” he found himself speaking aloud, tone firm but frightened, “stop it.”

The voice did not return, but he was truly shaken now. The silence of the lab crawled over him in the aftermath of his sudden outburst, accusatory and reproachful. He needed to leave.

Decision made, he hastily packed up and tidied the borrowed space, oddly furtive in case the strange, hideous voice returned.

 _You’re just tired,_ he told himself, nodding his thanks to the security guard as he headed back out into the overcast and gloomy day, the rain having temporarily subsided but threatening to pour again; _you haven’t been getting much sleep lately and you’ve put yourself on edge. That’s all._

He was doing little to comfort himself, and as he joined the main thoroughfare of Sunday afternoon shoppers, wrapped in raincoats and looking melancholy, he felt a thread inside himself begin to unravel, spinning him out into an old familiar anxiety that had not plagued him since his and Jemma’s first kiss.

He felt needy and desperate and he hated himself for it. Jemma had still not replied to his text and he thought he might combust, come completely undone, unanchored as he was. He knew, with sudden clarity, that he could not return to the empty flat, and with this realisation dawned a new, sharper panic. He stood stock still in the street, unsure where to turn.

Suddenly, his phone rang. He clambered for it in a hopeful rush, but the feeling dropped away as fast as it had come, Hunter’s caller ID blaring on his screen. Reluctantly, he answered.

“Yeah?”

“You look pretty today,” Hunter purred down the phone, “my, my, Fitz, what a _gorgeous_ jumper that is. It looks so soft!”

Fitz sighed and turned, brow furrowing as he failed to pick out his friend amongst the bedraggled masses, “Where are you?”

“Here!” Hunter yelled, hitting the glass of the building Fitz had stopped in front of, which he now realised, belatedly, was a seedy-looking betting shop. Hunter was grinning in the grubby window, dancing from foot to foot like a demented Rumpelstiltskin.

Fitz sighed again, “I’m not coming in, if my mum found out I’d even set foot in there she’d scalp me.”

“More fool you, lover.” Hunter crooned, but he was already heading for the door, still talking into his phone, “Your mum’s probably right mind, I’ve already lost a pony on a horse.”

Fitz hung up and glowered at his friend as he came to a stop an uncomfortably short distance away from him, bringing them almost nose-to-nose, if Hunter hadn’t been that bit taller. There was a mark on his leather jacket that looked a bit like dried blood. He’d probably managed to get into yet another bar fight.

Hunter stepped forward again, hugging him tightly and engulfing him in a stench of cheap beer and stale smoke, “It’s so good to run into you mate. I’ve barely seen you since Jemma opened her Gryffindor to let you Slytherin. Not that I don’t understand, she’s a lovely looking woman, but I’ve been feeling a bit abandoned, all on my lonesome. Where is your lover girl, anyway? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”

“She’s working,” Fitz choked, pushing back and away from Hunter’s smelly embrace, “and we saw you last week at the pub quiz, remember? You got into an argument with the quiz master about who played Mr Banks in that film.”

“Tom Hanks played _Walt Disney,_ there _was_ no Mr Banks, the whole thing was about exploring that poor love’s childhood trauma, it’s a beautiful flick. That sod should be disbarred.”

“From _what?_ ”

“The pub quiz board of clever nonces or whatever they call themselves. Shocking behaviour.”

He sighed, wrapping an arm around Fitz’s shoulder and beginning to guide him down the street, “But I’ve made my peace with it now. Can’t win them all. And wouldn’t have, actually, even if he had given me that point. Simmons’ no good for any question where you don’t need a four-figure IQ to get the answer and you’re dead weight on anything since the early 00s. T’was a fool’s errand.”

He clutched his heart dramatically, head turned to the darkening sky above, “I alone fought, and I alone took the defeat while you and Jemmakins were off doing all sorts of naughty things in the pub toilets.” Here he shook his friend, grinning, “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Fitz flushed, memories coming unbidden of a downright _filthily_ smiling Simmons, luring him into the disabled toilet for five minutes of intense canoodling that had ended with his hand halfway down her pants and someone pounding at the closed door, bellowing _“Perverts!”_ in an accent so thick it had taken a while to work out exactly what they were saying.

They had shuffled out the bathroom, shame-faced but relieved to discover the person who’d interrupted them was not actually in need of the loo, but was instead a furious-looking and distinctly world-weary bar tender, whose angry glare had followed them all the way back to the table where Hunter had sat, tipsy and enraged, trying to explain the entire plot of _Saving Mr Banks_ to a trapped group of innocent pub-goers in the next booth over.

They had decided to leave then, sharpish.

Hunter was still talking now, waxing lyrical about how he was the brain box of East Hackney back home, taking on quiz after quiz unbeaten until they’d disqualified him from competing; “I may _look_ like just another pretty face, but my brain’s a _steel trap._ Never forget a good fact, me. No offense.”

He’d managed to lead them to one of their usual haunts, a small and dingey pub that made up for it’s sad-old-man atmosphere with a good selection of beer on tap and a proper pool table. Fitz found himself perking up slightly as they entered. Yes, this wasn’t exactly what he had planned for his Sunday afternoon, but Hunter was alright, really, and whatever weird crisis he’d been having before seemed to be fading quietly away as they went to get their first round in.

“Two pints of the Drygate for me and the Mrs, and some honey-roasted nuts please, if you’ve got them.” Hunter called, receiving a grunt of acknowledgement from the heavily tattooed man behind the bar, who turned to pull two slightly dusty looking glasses down from the shelf behind him with extreme sullenness.

Drinks poured and paid for, Hunter again took the lead, finding them a table in the quietest corner of the pub and turning to stare intensely at Fitz almost the moment he’d sat down.

“Y’alright?”

“Um, yeah, why?”

“You just looked a bit odd when I ran into you, that’s all.” Hunter shrugged, tearing open his nuts and throwing a few into his mouth, “Odder than usual, I mean.”

Fitz screwed up his face in disgust as a scattering of nut-ridden spit hit the surface of the table, moving his pint out of the line of fire, “Thanks. No I’m okay, just a bit of a weird morning, that’s all.”

Hunter was still watching him carefully, “Weird how, exactly?”

“Oh…” Fitz looked down at his drink, debating just how much to say, “just, Simmons got called in to the hospital – “

“Ah, and you’re pining for your honey bunny?”

“Shut yer face. No, that’s not it. Well yeah, I am a bit, but that’s not … it’s just…” he raised his head again slowly, fixing his own scrutinizing gaze on his friend, “look, just _how well_ did you know me before … before. Have you really told me everything?”

Hunter leant back in his chair, expression thoughtful, “I think so, mate. Like I said, I did a bit of work with SHIELD back in the day, knew someone who knew someone, and you’d come along with us to the pub sometimes. Not sure what happened to anyone else from those days, probably went down with the rest of the poor buggers when that Hydra nonsense happened. Haven’t heard anything from anyone else since it went legitimate again. Either time.”

Hunter gestured to the bar’s battered old television. BBC news was playing on the muted screen, showing footage from a skirmish in Finland earlier that day. As Fitz watched, Quake blasted onto the scene in a classic superhero stance, readying to take on someone whose hands seemed to have morphed into sledgehammers.

“Holy shit.” He murmured.

“Holy shit indeed.” Hunter agreed, over enunciating each word as he reached to take another sip of his beer, “If you ask me, you did the right thing getting out of that circus when you did. Yeah, that Tony Stark's madder than the lot of them put together, but it looks like you managed to keep a nice low profile when you were working for him. _And_ you made bank.”

Fitz continued to stare at the screen, mind whirring. Behind him, Hunter sighed.

“Look, mate. Don’t go getting in your head about all that again. What’s passed has passed, right? And now look at you: nice little business, good friends, fit bird.” 

Fitz turned, starting to speak, but Hunter held out a hand to stop him.

“All I’m saying is, the way I see it, you’ve got plenty of good things to be focussing on without dredging up your past. No one’s bothered to reach out to you, have they? So why should you?”

Fitz exhaled, relenting, “I s’pose you’re right,” he took a swig of his beer, “but sometimes it just drives me mad. _Fifteen years,_ gone, poof, just like that. And every now and then…” he hesitated. He hadn’t even mentioned this to Simmons yet, “it feels like I can _almost_ remember. I’ll say something that doesn’t make sense. Or I’ll get déjà vu, reading the news or working – I feel like if I’m quick enough, I’ll catch something out of the corner of my eye, like a clue.” He sighed, massaging his face exhaustedly, “But I dunno. Simmons’ still hoping this study she’s doing will help, but we’ve not started properly yet.” He let his hands drop, curling around his pint, “And I don’t want to let her down.”

“Mate… “ Hunter reached out to touch his arm, tentative.

“Ah, but I’m being stupid.” Fitz dropped his hands again, rubbing them over his thighs and giving a tight smile, face wrinkling as he raised his shoulders, “Y’right, nothing to worry about.”

Hunter’s eyes lingered on him still, unusual gravity in his gaze, but finally he relented.

“Yeah, you’re right, you daft prick.” He slammed his hand on the table, tapping them rhythmically in a mock drum roll, “Now then, fancy getting trounced at pool?”

++

Six rounds of pool later, Hunter having been utterly defeated in each and every one, Fitz’s phone rang. Relief rushed through him as **Dr J Simmons** flashed up on his screen, accompanied by a photo of a smiling Jemma, holding up a squished Fury to pose for the camera.

“Hey!” He answered, tone easy from three beers and his annihilation of an increasingly grumpy Hunter.

“Oh Fitz, I’m so sorry, I’ve been up against it all day, I couldn’t even check my phone _once_. Are you okay?”

Fitz grinned, Jemma’s unnecessary apology washing over him to strip away the last of the niggling worries in his mind, “Ah I’m fine, Jem, don’t worry. Are you alright?”

“Yes, just knackered,” she sighed, “I’m on my way to the Golden Dragon now. Do you want your usual?”

“Please. I’m just out with Hunter now but I’ll leave in a minute, should still beat you home. I’ll pick up some of that beer you like. You can even have a foot rub, if you play your cards right.”

“Goodness,” Simmons purred down the line, “lucky me.”

Fitz smiled again. In the glass of the window, he could see the reflection of Hunter pantomiming throwing up onto the pool table, but he ignored him.

“Well, don’t hold me to it. But I’ll see you soon?”

“See you very soon. Give Hunter my best. Love you.”

“Love you too.” He hung up the phone and turned to his friend, who was already shrugging on his jacket.

“Ditching me for your lady love? For shame, Fitzy. I won’t stand for this much longer you know. Only so long a honeymoon period can go on for before it gets too ridiculous. How many times can you even dip your wick, anyway? You’re so _scrawny._ ”

Still, Hunter headed to door with him good-naturedly enough, patting him affectionately on the shoulder as they reached the now-silent street outside, “Right, people to go, places to see. I’ll text you tomorrow, yeah? We can book in a rematch. I won’t go so easy on you next time.”

“Sure. See you.” Fitz waved and turned quickly down the street, bounce in his step. He was struck by how carefree he felt now, on his way back to his flat to hear about Jemma’s day.

He popped into the local Sainsbury’s and grabbed the promised six pack, along with a tub of Jemma’s favourite ice cream. He was in the mood to spoil her.

As he queued, his gaze hovered over the health aisle to his right. Amidst the deodorant, baby wipes and range of tampons he found himself staring at a pack of condoms, heat rising in his cheeks.

Despite Hunter’s many lewd assumptions, he and Simmons had not gone _all the way_. They had skimmed the shallows many a time, Jemma serving as a happy guide into the wonders of sexual gratification, but they still hadn’t taken that final step.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to – he really, _really_ did, it was just … the timing hadn’t been quite right, yet.

The queue moved and he stepped forward, turning away from the prophylactics and instead ruminating on what lay ahead. Even if they did finally go that extra mile, he didn’t need to buy protection.

“I have the coil,” Simmons had announced, a month into their new relationship, causing him to get his hand trapped where he was locking his till for the day, “and we both have a clean bill of sexual health. Or at least, we should do, unless you were seeing anyone before me? Since the hospital?”

“ _Ow, fuck._ Wait, what?”

“Have you been with anyone intimately?” Jemma articulated, slowly and patiently, eyebrows raised.

“What, _no!_ I told you I’m a – I’m still a – “

“You don’t get STIs _just_ from vaginal penetration, Fitz,” Jemma said, ignoring his shudder at her clinical language, “you can get gonorrhoea from oral, too. In fact, maybe we should get you tested again, just to be sure –”

“No! No, that that won’t be necessary Jemma, seriously.” He shrugged, feeling sheepish, “I’ve not been with anyone, I promise. I was only ever interested in you, anyway.”

Jemma grinned, Cheshire-Cat wide, “Oh _really?_ ” she asked, stepping towards him, predatory even in her ridiculous polka dot trainers (“They’re fun!” she’d told him, indignantly), “Did you have a bit of a crush on your doctor, _Doctor_ Fitz?”

He harrumphed, rolling his eyes, “Simmons, you asked _me_ out. You drew me in with your…” he gestured vaguely at Jemma’s approaching form, “feminine wiles and what not. You can’t start making fun of me for coming along for the ride.”

Jemma’s smile widened as she came to halt a breath away from him, coming up onto her tiptoes as her arms curled around him, hands resting on the back of his neck. Heat flickered heavily in the air.

“So that’s all it is, hmm? You’re just in it for the ride?” she whispered, eyes searching his.

“You know I’m not.” he growled, before diving down to kiss the smug look off of her face, rewarded instantly with a lusty sigh.

He eased her back onto the shop’s counter, kissing her in a wild way but filled with tender affection, still reeling from the fact that he could do this, now. He could kiss Jemma Simmons and she would kiss him right back – even do him one better, her hands now sliding up into his hair, fingers scrunching into his curls as she hopped up onto the top of the counter, pulling him closer and closer, her sigh turning into a needy, urgent groan.

They broke apart, panting and watching each other hungrily.

“Back room?” She asked, cheekily.

“ _Yes._ ” He hissed back.

They stumbled, Jemma cackling, through the door into the break room and workshop. Fitz hastily cleared away the paper and tools scattered across the large table before pulling Jemma in front of him again, following her down as she leant back onto the table’s surface, her mouth moving feverishly against his.

He wanted to explore every inch of her, to chase his wandering hands with his lips, along the curve of her breasts and down past her stomach, soothing her scar with his mouth and reaching further to let himself finally taste her, to feel her heat against his tongue.

He growled again, Jemma’s lips having moved from his as she licked lavishly at his pulse, her fingers now working the buttons of his shirt. He helped her take it off before diving hungrily to remove her own practical top. He paused as they both pushed it up over her head, revealing a deep purple lace bra beneath.

“Dr Simmons.” He said in a tone of fake shock, “That is _not_ a work appropriate garment. I’m starting to think you planned this.”

Simmons smirked, legs looping around his waist to draw him back in, her fingers cascading down his bare chest in a repetitive, teasing pattern, “Perhaps. Are you complaining?”

“ _Fuck_ no.” He groaned, mind blanking suddenly as Jemma’s hand abruptly moved further down to cup him through his jeans, her tongue between her teeth, “ _Oh, God, Jemma – ”_

“Oh, I love it when you say my name like that,” she sighed, moving her hand slowly up and down, feeling him out, causing Fitz to stutter forward, gripping on to either side of the table for support, “do it again?”

Fitz complied, groaning and pulling her to him, mouth now messy on hers as she worked her way up to his zipper, dragging it down as she sucked ravenously on his tongue, insinuating and needy. Carefully, she pushed at his jeans and underwear, moving them over his arse towards his knees. She kicked lightly at the backs of his thighs, prompting him to step out of them properly.

Not quite far gone enough to be entirely unselfconscious, Fitz obeyed Jemma’s silent command with trepidation, feeling the little blood that had not headed down south make him flush under her aroused scrutiny. Her tongue was between her teeth again, her eyes dark.

Carefully, she reached out, wrapping her hand around his length and pumping slowly.

“ _Fuuuck._ ” He groaned, hips pushing forward to chase the sensation, “ _Jemma.”_

She grinned at him, a playful heat in her gaze. She tugged again, leading him closer to her as she twisted her grip, skimming her thumb over the tip of his cock. Black spots appeared in front of his eyes, a gut punch of arousal surging through him.

“Oh _Jesus – ”_

“Do you like that, Fitz?” Jemma asked, voice low and filled with gravel, her eyes now fixed on where she was moving over him, again and again.

“ _Yes, god, yes.”_

“Me too,” she murmured, still looking down to watch her own steady, even pace, “I like it a _lot._ Do you think, maybe, if I sped up a little, I could make you come?”

Fitz groaned again, head coming to rest on Jemma’s shoulder, perspiration trailing down from his hair. Her voice, god _,_ it was whiskey, shooting through him and tingling down his spine, down to his hard, heavy cock, throbbing in her delicate hand. He opened his eyes to see the motion, to capture it, _holy fuck –_

Jemma let go of him abruptly, but before he could even really process the sudden change, she had lifted her hand up, meeting his eye as she licked it, kitten-like, her pink tongue moving slowly across her palm. He gaped at her, whimpering.

Then her hand was on him again, making him wet, pumping hard and fast now, her eyes still boring into his, almost completely black and _greedy._

He was lost, hurtling down a rabbit hole of unfathomable pleasure. Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He was speeding towards the precipice with dangerous speed, a freight train of nerve endings and lust and _love._ Every inch of his skin was on fire, desperate for release.

“Say my name again, Fitz.” Jemma coaxed urgently, the fingers of her free hand coming to trail along his lips. He pressed sloppy kisses to them, frantic, hips now moving rapidly as he fucked into her perfect grip, “say it again for me.”

“ _Jemma!”_ He yelled, and then he was coming, _hard,_ completely undone under the motions of Jemma’s still slowly moving hand, guiding him through his release as he fell over the edge of the cliff, reeling.

His legs gave out, making him stumble forward onto the floor. His head fell against Jemma’s knees.

He rested for a minute, taking stock of all that had occurred in the short time since they’d headed into the workshop to begin their tryst. Soon, he was sure, he would be embarrassed by just how quickly Simmons had managed to take him apart, but for the moment he was too blissed out to care. He tilted his head to press a soft kiss to Jemma’s knee, just left of another, more innocuous scar.

Above him, Jemma stifled a giggle, kicking his side. He eased himself up carefully, fixing her with a look of literally naked adoration, “That tickled.” She said, sternly, before standing up to kiss him, one hand held carefully to the side.

“Are you okay?” she asked between kisses, “Was that alright?”

“Was that alright? _Christ_ Jemma,” he shook his head, still punch-drunk, “that was… _god._ You’re the most _incredible_ woman.”

She beamed, pleased, before cautiously side-stepping him to head to the bathroom.

“Come clean up,” she called over her shoulder as she turned on the tap, “then let’s get dressed and we can head back to yours for round two. I have some ideas for how you can return the favour.”

Giddy with joy, he obeyed her once more.

 _Christ._ He had spent what had felt like hours that night buried between her thighs, feeling her come undone against his mouth –

Fitz coughed uncomfortably at his own depraved memories as he felt his body begin to stir, quickening his pace as he neared home.

It had been over two months since that blissful afternoon, and he had experienced many similar, delightful moments with Jemma; wrapped in heated embraces in his flat, the shop, even – on one particularly memorable occasion – in a secluded glen at sunset, his once U-rated fantasy transformed into an extremely X-rated reality. His desire for her was seemingly limitless. A simple sigh, a turn of a hip, the sun catching her just-so, and he was on her, a man starved. Perhaps tonight, it would go further.

Dizzy at the thought, Fitz rounded the corner onto his street. He noticed that a light was shining through the door to the flat, prompting him to speed up again, a grin stretched across his face; Jemma had beaten him home after all.

But as he drew up to the entrance, a terrible dread settled over him. The door was ajar, swaying in the wind.

Cautiously, he stepped forward into the hall. All his jackets were on the floor, the table scattered and broken. Heart thumping wildly in his chest, he moved in further, picking his way through the disarray to reach the main room.

The whole place was wrecked, his furniture torn apart, glass shattered across the floor in violent shards.

Behind him, the front door clicked close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, plot and porn, neither of those are my strong suit. It's really hard to find another word for 'mouth'.
> 
> Thanks again for reading xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leant back in the uncomfortable desk chair, closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing; in for four, out for seven. It was a technique Jemma had taught him back in the hospital when his frustration and fear got the better of him, a way to steady his pulse and focus his mind. But this recollection again threw his thoughts into disarray.
> 
> Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. This sensation felt as real as the table in front of him, as his continued, measured, breathing in the quiet of the darkened room. He knew it the same way he knew his own name, the laws of thermodynamics, the freckles that dusted the back of Jemma’s elegant hands.

“Fitz?!” Jemma’s panicked voice called as she ran in, eyes frantic as they met his, “Oh _thank god._ ”

She lunged across the ruined room to pull him into an unsteady hug, speaking quickly under her breath _; “_ You’re safe, it’s okay, you’re safe, we’re alright, it’s going to be alright.” She pulled away to cup his face with her hands, “You are alright? You’re not hurt?”

“No. No, I’m fine, Jemma, I’m fine.” He mirrored her stance, running his thumbs soothingly across her cheeks where tears were threatening to fall, “It’s alright. I only just got back. Are _you_ okay?”

Jemma nodded a little manically, pulling him forward to press fluttering kisses everywhere she could reach.

“I was so worried.” She murmured, “I thought – ” she paused, inhaling and exhaling in a shuddering breath, “Well. That doesn’t matter now. God, Fitz, what _happened_?””

“I don’t know, like I said I only just got in. I think – I guess it must have been a burglary.”

He turned away from Jemma to cast his eye over the destruction all around them. Nearly everything had been destroyed: stuffing pulled from cushions, pages torn from books, a mirror smashed with shards scattered across the floor.

“A really, really, thorough burglary.” He frowned at where his TV was leaning against the wall, shoved carelessly aside but still very much not-stolen, “Or a rubbish one. No idea why they’d leave Bridget behind.”

Laughing shakily, Jemma also surveyed the room, her arms now wrapped around herself in a fragile embrace, “Well, she is huge, maybe they couldn’t get her through the door?” she smiled at him weakly, before turning to step delicately through to the bedroom, “Although the mess they’ve made is … unsettling. Don’t touch anything!” she yelped suddenly.

Fitz froze where he’d been about to brush the broken glass off a framed photo of him and his mum, startled.

“The police will need to photograph the whole scene.” Jemma said grimly, pulling out her phone “I’ll ring them now, shall I?”

“Oh, yeah, of course … sorry.” He put his hands in his pockets to avoid further temptation. As Jemma begun to speak hurriedly into her phone, voice low, he wandered back into the hall, finding an abandoned bag of Chinese takeaway, Jemma’s vegetable chow mein open and oozing onto the floor.

He scooped it up, careful not to disrupt any of the other chaos, and felt a sudden shiver run through him. His mind was playing catch-up, struggling through the fog of his initial shock to settle on something dark and ominous.

He felt violated _._ They had come into his private space, they had been through his things. What if he’d been at home? What if _Jemma_ had been? What if – _oh shit._

“Fury?!” He called, running back down the hall at break-neck speed, “Fury?! Come here baby, come here.” He crouched down to the floor, making gentle kissing noise, “Come here sweet boy. _Fury?_!”

Jemma stepped out of the bedroom, a frazzled looking Fury clutching her chest.

“He’s here,” she said softly, “he was hiding behind the wardrobe, bless him.”

Fitz drew himself up to his full height, hands on hips as he glared at the cat, “Behind the _wardrobe?_ How did he even fit? Actually, hold on, he was _hiding_?! What’s even the point of getting a bloody great monster like him when the moment there’s trouble he scarpers?”

Jemma raised her eyebrows, unamused, and Fitz relented, coming to stroke the cat carefully behind the ear. For once Fury did not recoil from his touch but instead purred, a rumbling, soothing sound that temporarily dispelled the heavy anxiety permeating the air. Jemma smiled softly.

“I’m glad he’s safe too.” She said quietly. “The police are on their way. We’ll need to give a statement, then you can come back to mine for the night. Does he have a carrier?”

“Yeah, well, more like an industrial containment unit but I’ve got one, it’s in the shed.” Fitz sighed, moving his hand way from the cat to rub down Jemma’s arm, “Did they take his special blanket?”

“No, thank goodness.” Jemma grinned, “And yours is safe too.”

“It’s not – I’ve not – my mum _insisted_ I bring it here, Simmons!”

The sound of Jemma’s growing laughter was cut off sharply by a knock at the door, sending Fitz into a mad panic again as he stumbled out of the room to answer it.

“That was quick – ” he froze, still halfway through opening the door. Out on the street stood his mum’s neighbour, tall and blonde and scarred, kitted out in a police uniform as though it was a completely normal thing for him to be wearing.

“ _Davis_?”

“Oh, hey Fitz. Aw no, you’re the guy that’s been burgled? Sorry buddy.” He patted him on the shoulder, hard, before stepping past him to walk into the flat, taking in the scene with a sad shake of his head, “Boy, they really did a number on the place, huh?”

“You’re a _police_ officer?” Fitz followed the American into the main room, arms folded and eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, your mom never said?” Davis asked, crouching down and flipping out a notepad to begin writing, “I started back in the States but when we moved over here I did the training again. Just always been my calling, y’know? Helping people? Oh, hey Jemma.” He flashed a toothy grin at Simmons, who had just entered the room, still carrying Fury, “Woah, and who’s this big fella?”

Fitz watched, betrayed, as Davis lumbered across the room, his big, stupid, manly hands pawing at Fury, who acted like this wasn’t a big deal, leaning into the stranger’s touch.

“He doesn’t like being fussed.” Fitz said sulkily.

“Aw, sure he does,” Davis said easily, moving to tickle ( _tickle!_ ) Fury under the chin, “Man, have you got a story to tell! Cool eye patch.” He turned his nauseatingly charming smile on Fitz.

“There’ll be more guys coming later to case it all out properly, don’t worry. I’m just here to do the initial report and get your guys’ statements. Your mom know you’ve been robbed yet? She’ll be so bummed.”

 _Bummed!_ He mouthed incredulously at Jemma while Davis’ back was turned.

 _Be. Nice._ She mouthed back, still somehow managing to be scolding, despite her silence.

“Okay. So, what valuables have been taken?”’ ‘Officer’ Davis asked, scanning the room, “TV’s still here I see, and the stereo – nice set up, by the way – any cash kept on the property? Jewellery?”

Fitz felt the heat rise in his cheeks, looking to the ceiling to avoid catching anyone’s eye.

No, there was no jewellery, luckily, but there might have been.

A month ago, he had taken Jemma with him for his weekly scheduled tea with his mum, much to Marianne’s delight.

“Oh, Jemma! _Look_ at you. You’re a right ray of sunshine.” She’d said, squeezing Jemma tightly before leaning back to examine her properly, “Still too thin, mind. Is he not feeding you?”

She turned to her son, standing in the doorway and laden down with a litany of odds and ends, heaving under their combined weight “You’re not feeding her, Leo.”

“She’s not a pet, mum.” He said crossly, pushing past to put the boxes down on the coffee table, “There’s all your gear. Remind me again why you have to get this junk delivered to _my_ shop?”

“I told you, I can’t be sitting in all day waiting for things to arrive, I’ve got a busy schedule.” His mum sniffed, bustling over to rummage in the first package. “Oh, look, isn’t he _bonnie_?”

She held her prize aloft, a stone cherub clutching what looked like a bouquet of peonies, its stone eyes blank and soulless.

“Er…”

“Oh yes, that will look _gorgeous_ next to the fish-pond Mrs Fitz.” Jemma lied, coming forward to touch Fitz’s arm placatingly.

“If I’ve told you once hen, I’ve told you a thousand times, _call me Marianne_.” Fitz’s mum tutted, moving past the pair to the make her way into the kitchen, “Tea?”

“Yes please.” Fitz and Jemma said in synch, turning to smile at each other ruefully as they followed Marianne into the kitchen.

“Lovely. And I’ll put some biccies out too, shall I? Start getting some meat on your bones.” Marianne poked Jemma in the side playfully.

“Jemma made some flapjacks, mum.” Fitz offered.

Marianne faltered halfway to the sink, looking askance before she pulled herself together, “Oh er… how kind!”

She took the tupperware Fitz was holding out to her as though it contained toxic waste, “Well, these are _far_ too nice just for tea. I’ll put them away for a special occasion, shall I?” she shoved them haphazardly onto the kitchen counter before hastily setting about to put the kettle on to boil. Fitz grinned in spite of himself, before catching Jemma’s eye and sobering quickly.

“At least try _one._ ” He reasoned, walking over to open the container. The inside was a crash site of burnt oats and syrup, raspberries oozing onto the paper towel layering the bottom like victims of some violent crime. Fitz gritted his teeth as he pulled at a fragment.

 _You love her,_ he reminded himself, pushing the sticky atrocity into his mouth, _this is a labour of love._

“Mmm!” He exalted, attempting to chew without chipping a tooth. He swallowed a too-large bit, making his eyes water, “See _,_ delicious!”

Jemma beamed at him.

_Worth it._

“Maybe later,” Marianne dodged, opening the fridge to fish out the milk, “I had a big lunch.”

“Aw, _mum_ –” he was cut off by the trill of the front doorbell.

“Och! Saved by the bell!” His mum called before flushing, making her similarity to her son suddenly very apparent, “I mean, I wonder who that could be?”

She rushed from the room, leaving Fitz to place a gentle kiss to the top of a sulking Jemma’s head.

“Ignore her. They’re great.”

“Really?” She asked suspiciously.

“Well, give it seven years to pass through my system but yeah, your best yet.” He dodged Jemma’s angrily flapping hands as his mum exclaimed from the other room.

“Mr Davis! Oh, wonderful, you’re just in time for tea.”

“That sounds great Marianne,” the obnoxious man drawled back, “but I was just coming to see if you wanted me to drive you to your drinks tonight, I know you like to have fun with the girls.”

“Och, away with you, you cheeky boy. You’re just angling for an invitation.” Marianne giggled, bustling back into the room with Davis in tow.

“Fitz!” He called, smiling, “So good to see you.” He turned to Jemma, “And _so great_ to see you, Jemma. I’m real glad I ran into you actually; Robbie’s not been feeling great. Would you mind coming over to give him a quick check-up? My wife and I would really appreciate it.”

“Now hang on – ” Fitz began, but Jemma spoke over him firmly.

“Of course. Lead the way.” She pressed her hand again to Fitz’s arm, shooting him a quick, apologetic smile as she followed Davis out.

As the door shut behind them, Marianne turned to her son, a worrying look on her face.

“Oh no.” Fitz groaned, “What do you want?”

“What do I want? What do _I_ want? The nerve!” Marianne exclaimed, but her cheeks were reddening again, “I’ve got something for _you._ ” She fumbled in her skirt pocket nervously.

“Mum?”

She reached out and took his hand, placing something small and metal in his palm. He looked down, confused, “Is that nan’s ring?”

“The very one,” Marianne nodded, “I thought you might need it.”

“Thought I might … mum! We’ve not been going out five minutes!” Fitz cried in exasperation.

“Well, you’re not getting any younger, and if you want me around to meet my grandchildren, you need to get a move on.”

“You’re not even sixty yet.”

“Oh aye, so I’m supposed to sit back and twiddle my thumbs while you drag your feet? I’d like a bit of spring in my step to fuss your wee ones, thank you. No doubt you’ll be relying on me enough, what with your high-flying careers.”

But she relented, taking the ring back grudgingly, “Alright, I’ll keep hold of it for now, you’ll lose it otherwise. But if you don’t come round asking for it soon I’ll do it myself.” She looked up at him, eyes warm, “You’re a _lovely_ couple.”

He couldn’t resist smiling, “Yeah, we are, aren’t we?”

“Look at you, you’re up the high doh.” His mum chuckled.

Fitz sighed, acquiescing, “Just keep it safe for the time being, alright?”

Marianne reached up to pinch his cheek, glowing.

“No jewellery.” Jemma said firmly, bringing Fitz out of his daydream and back to harsh reality, “And I don’t think you keep money here Fitz, do you?”

“No,” he confirmed, “I put all the cash from the shop in the overnight deposit box at the bank. And my spare keys are with Jemma.”

Jemma nodded, pulling them out of her pocket.

“You got anything else they might want, Fitz? Anything at all?” Davis tapped his pen as he waited for Fitz’s response, his expression unreadable.

“I can’t think.” Fitz huffed, frustrated, “I’ve no idea.”

Davis nodded, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just take your statements then the team can do a full assessment, get an inventory going. But if you remember anything you just call me, okay? I’ve got your back. Now, you’ve got a private entrance right? Did they just hit you? Have you heard from Mr Keller upstairs?”

Fitz blinked, “No. No I haven’t.”

++

Two hours later, safe within in the confines of Jemma’s eerily neutral flat, a fierce argument was raging.

“For heaven’s _sake_ Fitz! He’s not ‘out to get you’.” Simmons fumed, yanking back the bed covers with violent force.

“Well then how the hell did he know my neighbour’s name without me telling him?” Fitz shouted back, pulling his pyjamas from his bag.

“He must have checked the names of the people at the property when he got the call – “

“He said he didn’t know it was my flat! What, he checked for Keller but not for me?”

Jemma hesitated, “Alright, yes, that _is_ a bit odd, but maybe he thought it was a _different_ Fitz –”

He snorted derisively, arms crossed.

“ – _or,_ maybe he was getting more information through on his phone while you weren’t looking. You do have a habit of drifting off.”

Fitz gaped, “I have a _brain injury_ Simmons. I get distracted. Sorry if that means sometimes I don’t live up to your perfect standards – ”

Jemma flinched as if he’d physically hit her, “Don’t.” Her voice was harsh and fierce, “Don’t say that. You know what I mean.”

He flung his arms in exasperation, “Do I? Because you’re shutting me down when all I’m saying is that it’s weird that my mum’s neighbour – who she’s pretty cosy with, by the way – “

“Oh god, not this again.”

“ – just shows up, out of the blue, five minutes after we find the flat completely ransacked! What’s he even _doing_ over here anyway? And how did he get that bloody scar?”

“It’s from a hiking accident!”

“What, he was hiking with his face?”

“A _branch_ hit him!”

“His _full_ _name_ is **Davis D. Davis!** ” Fitz bellowed, throwing his arms out towards Jemma in an incensed appeal, “How is that _not_ suspicious?”

“I think he was joking,” Jemma said through gritted teeth, eyes cast heavenwards.

“Oh, ha ha, what a funny man! What’s his real name then?”

Jemma froze where she had begun to pace, looking suddenly stunned, “Oh.”

“What?”

“I… I don’t actually know.”

Fitz gestured again wildly, vindicated, “See? That’s _weird_!”

Jemma sighed, fire fading as she moved to perch on the end of the bed, head in hands, “Yes. Yes it is.” She turned to look at him with tired eyes, “But I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this. _Please_ Fitz, it’s been such a long day. Can’t we just go to sleep?”

As if on cue, Director Fury sidled into the room and jumped up onto the duvet, turning in circles to get comfy. Fitz deflated.

“Yeah, yeah okay.” He turned away to get changed, ignoring Jemma’s murmured _thank you_ as he continued to chew over the mysterious Davis and his possible role in his invaded flat. Something wasn’t right, he could feel it in his gut.

He climbed into bed beside Jemma, automatically raising an arm so she could scoot into his side, but there was still tension between them.

Jemma’s hand spread over his heart as she sighed, “We can talk about it more in the morning. I’m not shutting you down, Fitz, I promise. I just think if you can’t solve a problem, sleep on it.”

“My mum used to say that to me all the time.” He mumbled against her forehead.

“She’s a wise woman.” Jemma shifted to place a kiss in the bush of his beard, huffing as the hair tickled her nose, “Get some sleep, Fitz. Tomorrow’s another day.”

But Fitz lay awake long after Jemma had shuffled away from him, curling herself up and snoring gently. He could not calm the noise in his head.

Slowly, he stepped out of the bed, careful not to wake his sleeping girlfriend. Fury raised his head from his paws to watch him leave the room, tail swishing discontentedly.

He headed down the corridor to Jemma’s study, opening and closing the door gradually so as not to make a sound. Again, like everything else in Jemma’s home, the study was cold and clean, seeming almost untouched. He stepped further into the room, contemplating the quiet before heading to her desk, grabbing a pen and paper as he sat down.

His hand hovered over the page for a moment as he tried to tidy his mind. Then he began to write:

  * _The break in_
  * _Davis_
  * _Keller?_
  * _Mackenzie_
  * _Morocco_
  * _Coulson_
  * _Gold paint_
  * _Shield_



He stared down at his own hectic thoughts, looking for a clear connection between them all. But his brain, so adept at wielding together designs and finding mechanical work arounds, could not or would not cooperate now.

He leant back in the uncomfortable desk chair, closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing; in for four, out for seven. It was a technique Jemma had taught him back in the hospital when his frustration and fear got the better of him, a way to steady his pulse and focus his mind. But this recollection again threw his thoughts into disarray.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. This sensation felt as real as the table in front of him, as his continued, measured, breathing in the quiet of the darkened room. He knew it the same way he knew his own name, the laws of thermodynamics, the freckles that dusted the back of Jemma’s elegant hands.

_Jemma._

Jemma by his side, day after day, sad yet smiling, asking him again what he remembered, what he knew, getting him to complete a master sudoku or build a basic circuit board.

Jemma taking him for scan after scan, playing him music, staying late to watch _Doctor Who_ DVDs with him, DVDs she’d brought from home – but where were they? He hadn’t seen them in this blank, empty space.

Jemma laughing with him, Jemma lacing her fingers with his, Jemma whispering in his ear as they lay entwined in his bed, telling him all her secrets.

All her secrets.

He exhaled hard and stood up, shaking himself like a wet dog. That way lay madness. Simmons had been right; he should sleep on it.

++

The next morning, he and Jemma tiptoed around each other as they got ready for their respective days. Their natural ease with one another had not returned after the argument the night before, and Fitz hated it. He felt out of step with his own body, a knock-on effect of their disrupted rhythm.

They left the flat together but hovered awkwardly at the end of the street as they prepared to part ways; Jemma was headed to a lecture, Fitz to open his shop.

A little unsure, Fitz reached forward to kiss Jemma goodbye, but as he tentatively leant in she moved further forward, pulling him into a tight hug. He felt a little of his anxiety subside as he gave into temptation and buried his head into her shoulder, letting her familiar scent wash over him.

They broke apart slowly, Fitz following one of her moving arms so he could loosely tangle their fingers, not ready to fully break contact just yet. Jemma smiled at him, eyes weary but still warm.

“Call me when you hear from the police, won’t you? If I’m not in a lecture I’ll answer.”

“Of course I will, yeah. I’ll ring anyway, at lunch?” Jemma made a vague noise of agreement as she reached up to peck him quickly on the lips.

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

He watched, hesitating, as she began walking in the direction of the university before finally calling after her;

“Jemma?”

She stopped and looked back, curious, “Yes, Fitz?”

“I want to start our recall sessions tonight, if that’s okay with you? You know, try those techniques you mentioned?”

Simmons did not reply straight away, but instead studied him, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. Then she smiled, nodding, “Alright. I’ll get everything prepared today, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She raised her hand, blowing him another kiss, then turned again, walking purposely around another corner and out of sight.

One of the few benefits of staying at Jemma’s was that it was a shorter walk to work, meaning Fitz could stop on the way for second breakfast.

He dropped into a nearby Costa Coffee and joined the queue of harried early morning customers; a man in a crumpled grey suit, a woman in a neat pinstriped dress, another clutching the hand of a small child that was blowing heavily on the glass of the pastry cabinet then drawing in the condensation, unnoticed by her carer. Fitz found himself watching, amused, as she wrote ‘BUM’ in wobbly, large letters.

Next to the vandalised display of goodies– including a giant pain au chocolate that was destined for his belly – was a newsstand, the front page of each paper covering Quake’s escapades in Helsinki the day before. He scanned one absentmindedly.

He’d forgotten what he’d seen on the news at the pub (Hunter and his wrecked flat had served as a decent distraction), but he was fascinated by inhumans and maybe sort of fancied Agent Daisy Johnson, so…

**QUAKE SHAKES INHUMAN INTO SHAPE**

_Yesterday saw Agent Daisy Johnson of SHIELD – or ‘Quake’ as she is known by her fans – take on yet another unnatural threat. Witnesses reported a dramatic stand-off between the hero inhuman and a woman who could morph her body into multiple, deadly shapes. In a scene similar to the one that devastated Mostar, Bosnia just seven months ago, the hostile Helsinki-born Meda Skrüll…_ **continues on page three.**

Fitz read and re-read the small opening paragraph, feeling that unnerving, itching sensation creep up once more. Something about the story was raising a red flag but he couldn’t think what. He scooped up the paper, tucking it under his arm as he waited to pay, resolving to study it further in the quiet of his shop.

He picked up his pace as he wound through the slowly filling streets, the people of Glasgow setting out for another week of work. He waved a hand in greeting to Mr Paver next door before unlocking FZZZT and setting about it making it ready for opening. Lights on, sandwich board placed outside, till stacked and computer booted, he popped on the kettle and began munching on his crumbly chocolate pastry, reading the full story of Quake vs the hostile inhuman as he ate.

Nothing in the report jumped out at him, but he was still unsettled, and he made his tea slowly as he thought hard, running over the words in his head.

Back at the counter, he logged into his computer and went quickly to Google, searching for Quake before clicking through immediately to her Wikipedia page.

There was little solid information about where Agent Johnson had come from, but a great deal on her seemingly-vigilante rise to fame before she was revealed to be working under a newly re-founded SHIELD, headed up by Jeffrey Mace, another inhuman.

He followed a link to Mace’s page, frowning. There was something familiar about the photo at the top of the page, the bland smiling face oddly antagonising. And was that … guilt?

Maybe Mace had tried to re-recruit him to SHIELD, back before the accident? There was no way of finding out for sure; the Director had died mysteriously over three years ago. No hard evidence over what had happened there either, but the author of the page mentioned that there were rumours that it had something to do with an organisation that called themselves the Watchdogs, who had attempted a very public assassination of Mace a few months prior to his death.

There was a video link. Fitz clicked through again to watch as the steady newscast turned into shaky mayhem as shots fired. Mace flung up the podium he was holding with superhuman strength, all very heroic. But there was _something,_ again…

Fitz hit replay, leaning in close to the screen to watch. Mace’s speech, Daisy steps forward, and then – he paused the video.

Frozen on screen was a blurry image of a man in a black suit and aviators rushing into the chaotic scene. Fitz stared, a word fizzing on the tip of his tongue, his mind a livewire:

“Coulson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biccies = biscuits, aka cookies  
> High doh = super happy
> 
> #DavisLIVES and would definitely take advantage of this situation to wind up Fitz.  
> 'Robbie' is for Robert Gonzales, because in my head that's who Davis was with in season two.
> 
> I once worked at a coffee shop where a small child vandalised our cake display with condensation drawings and honestly, it broke my heart to wipe it clean. Her stink lines were a work of art.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading again x


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz snorted, “Oh yeah, it was a real hardship,” he plonked himself back down on the sofa, dropping a kiss on a still-starry-eyed Jemma’s head, “I’d dive through a hole in the universe for you Jem, you know that.”
> 
> She suddenly tensed under his touch, “What?”
> 
> “Steady on, I don’t mean that literally. That wormhole at the battle of New York looked nasty.” Fitz said, reaching forward for his first hobnob, “But I’m always happy to bring you your tea. Provided, y’know, I don’t have to fight aliens to do it.” He shot her a cheeky grin, which Jemma returned, a little weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, this gets E-rated now, but that section is nicely sectioned off between 'David Attenborough' and 'Wakey, Wakey' by little '++' symbols so please skip if that's not your bag, it's not totally essential to the plot.
> 
> *sips wine*

Jemma pressed the palms of hands against her aching, fatigued eyes, thinking hard.

“And there’s no sign of forced entry at all?”

“None.” Mack sighed, turning in his chair to face her. He hesitated, looking uncomfortable, “Jemma, I know this is hard to hear, but – ”

“No. _No!_ He was fine. He was fine when I left.”

“But there’s still the two-hour gap between you leaving and him getting to the university, and Keller says he looked … out of it, when he showed up.”

“And why wasn’t Keller stationed at _home?_ ”

“You said to monitor him at the lab, in case working on the drones triggered anything.”

“And after that?”

“He knew Fitz would be safe with Hunter. Come on Simmons, don’t get mad at Weller, he followed protocol.”

Jemma rolled her eyes, pushing herself up to her feet and beginning to pace the room, wringing her hands, “And there was really nothing taken?”

“Not taken. Just the note you found in the bedroom.” Mack gestured to the piece of paper on the table between them.

There, in a tight, angry scrawl, were the words _**Do not trust her.**_

Jemma glanced down at the note then quickly away, blinking back tears. Mack continued, his voice low and steady.

“He didn’t hurt anyone. We think he was looking for mics or cameras, and thanks to you he didn’t find any. You made the right call, keeping his home a neutral space.”

Jemma snorted, gaze now fixed hard on the ceiling, foot tapping anxiously.

“And you think he left deliberately left a ‘scene’ to make Fitz suspicious? Why not just confront him directly?”

“I don’t know Simmons, you’re the one doing the psych degree.” Mack’s voice was suddenly stern, laced with frustration, “But I’ve said from the start this plan of yours is too risky. I think it’s time we bring him in. With the Doctor in play – ”

“Absolutely not! Are you joking? That would be a far greater risk. Fitz’s mind is very fragile right now. One bad decision and – ”

“And what?” Mack shot up from his chair, “What happens, Simmons, if things go sideways while you’re busy playing house? You think the Doctor’s going to take it easy on you? He’s not going to take another shot?”

“He’s not the Doctor, he’s my _husband_!” Jemma shouted, hand slamming down hard on the table. A heavy silence followed as the two agents glared at each other, stubborn and unrelenting.

There was a tentative knock on the door, then Daisy entered, looking between them with an expression of clear concern.

“Um, am I interrupting something?” She asked, trying for light-hearted, but it rang hollow.

Jemma stepped away from the table, busying her hands in her hair “No it’s fine, we were just discussing mission strategy,” she gave Daisy a tight smile, “Did Agent Davis manage to resolve his little slip-up?”

“Yeah, he made up some crap about the building being in Keller’s name or something,” Daisy shrugged, “and I’ve got the local police on board with the ‘trouble-making youths’ schtick you asked for, made it look like a random attack. It should buy you some time.”

“Do we want more time?” Mack asked, face still grim, “You want to go back to acting like everything’s normal? I hear what you’re saying Jemma, I do, but there’s a part of that man that’s not the Fitz we know. He’s not safe. Not with that devil inside him.”

Jemma’s face twisted darkly, “With all due respect, Director, I have a slightly better understanding of the situation than you do, and it’s not ‘the devil’ we’re dealing with. It’s a tad more complicated than that. And yes, what happened yesterday was … unfortunate, but it could also be seen as a positive! His brain’s obviously fighting the walls he put up.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the part we want fighting,” Daisy interjected, “I want Fitz back just as much you do – ”

“ _Wrong._ ”

“ – but if it’s not Fitz that comes back, do you really want to keep doing this? What if you lose him altogether?”

“Science always involves risks.” Jemma said firmly, “And I _know_ him. Fitz is a good man with a good heart. This is just a schism. I’ll update his medication and move forward with the therapy. It won’t be long now.”

Mack and Daisy shared a significant look before Mack sighed, relenting.

“Okay. But we can’t keep doing this forever, Simmons. This isn’t our only mission and we’ve already pulled good agents out of the field to babysit. Daisy had to step away from her mediation with Skrüll yesterday for this. If anything like that happens again, I’m pulling you out. End of discussion.”

++

Fitz thanked Davis and hung up the phone, frowning to himself. ‘Troubled teens’? Keller’s name being registered to the building? Wasn’t it weird that he’d mentioned Keller at all, since he was the only one to have been hit by ‘those rascals’? Everything about the exchange had been off.

What’s more, the call had come just as he thought he was getting somewhere with the unshakeable uncertainty that had hung over him since the night before. He looked back up at his computer screen, the blurred image now completely unfamiliar. Yet he’d been so sure, just for a moment, that the man caught in the freeze-frame was called Coulson.

But it was like a wall had been thrown up in his head, leaving him reeling. A harsh blankness filled his mind as he tried to recall, once more, just who Coulson was, and why he was important.

Had he known him at SHIELD? At Stark? He headed back to Google, but there was nothing useful there: a building company, someone who made greetings cards, an old journalist. He gave a noise of frustration, closing the window altogether and instead grabbing his phone to update Jemma.

She answered quickly, a little breathless, “Hello?”

“Hey, how was the lecture?”

“Oh fine, thank you … any news on the break in?”

“Yeah I just got off the phone with Davis. He says it was likely just some random kids. Apparently it’s been happening a lot lately, so… “

“Oh no, that’s _awful_!” Jemma cried, “For you and for them. You know, there really needs to be more programmes for troubled youths, a way to keep their minds occupied and give them a chance to challenge themselves and to _learn_ – ”

She was babbling.

“Yeah, Jem, I agree, but right now I’m more concerned about that fact they completely destroyed my flat.” Fitz cut in, but he was unable to keep the fondness out of his tone; trust Jemma to sympathise with the vandals, “I think we need to go to Ikea again.”

“Oh no.” Her voice was mocking but he could _hear_ her grin, “We nearly killed each other last time.”

“Last time we were just mates. Now if you try and convince me to buy pointless, weird lamps I can kiss you to keep you quiet.”

“On the showroom floor? Fitz, you incorrigible hussy!”

Fitz smiled. The tension from that morning seemed to have faded away completely and he was incredibly relieved. “You’re one to talk, Miss ‘Come-help-me-with-this-zip-whoops-I’m-not-wearing-any-knickers.’”

Jemma laughed, loud and easy, “I don’t think we can go back to that Debenhams now.”

“ _Oh no._ ” He repeated, mimicking her tone.

Jemma chuckled again, “Listen, I’ve got to get to the library and do some research so everything’s ready for later. I’ll come meet you at the shop at closing time and we can pick out something for dinner together.”

“Sure. Maybe that salmon thing you like?”

“Oooh yes! But I really better get going now. Listen, Fitz … I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he said sincerely, trying to reassure her, “and I love you.”

“Excellent. Oh no, there’s someone on the other line. Bye, Fitz.”

“Bye Jemma.”

She ended the call, leaving him wearing a foolish smile that stretched ear to ear.

Everything was alright, really.

The day ticked by smoothly enough, a simple call to his insurance company about his flat, a more complicated one with his panicking mother, customers coming and going. Jemma arrived just as he was wrapping up with an elderly man who wanted advice on how to make video calls on his computer.

“And if you do this… “ Fitz explained, shooting Jemma a quick smile before turning back to the gentleman, who was concentrating hard, “you can even change the background. See? You can talk to your grandkids underwater, in a nice restaurant, at the top of Eiffel Tower … oh, space! That’s a good one.”

The man whistled, impress; “Imagine tha’! My wee grandson will love tha’ one. He goes 90 miles a minute on space at the mo, says he wants to be an astronaut.”

“Sounds like a smart chap. I was the same when I was young, tried to make a rocket out of m’poor mum’s vacuum cleaner. Drove her round the bend.”

The man chuckled, scooping up the smart black notebook in which he’d been making detailed notes throughout the tutorial, “Well thank you, I widnae been able to figure all this out on my own, I’d have looked a right roaster in front o’ the weans.”

“Anytime. There’s my number there, if you want me to talk it through with you on the phone once you’re back home. Not tonight mind, I’ve got a date.” He nodded towards Jemma who grinned and waved.

The old man looked at her agog for a moment, then turned back to Fitz, impressed, “Bloody hell man. Hoot y’get a braw burd like that? You’re not hackit yerself, but _her!_ ”

Fitz frowned as Jemma laughed joyously, before leaning forward with an air of confidentiality, “Between you and me sir, he’s an _excellent_ kisser.”

“Oh nae, she’s a sassenach.” The man said, shaking his head sadly, then walked straight past Jemma to leave the shop without a backwards glance.

Jemma turned to Fitz, confused, “I’m a what?”

“An English imposter,” Fitz translated, coming out from behind the counter to give her a proper greeting.

“Oh _charming,_ ” Jemma huffed, before stepping up on tiptoe to receive Fitz’s kiss hello. They stayed like that for a moment before breaking apart, both pleased.

“How was studying? Get a lot done?” Fitz asked, moving away to start packing up the shop.

Jemma followed him, settling into their well-established groove; he took the till to start counting up the sales from the day, she sorted out the abandoned mugs and scattered tech.

“Yes! I found some really intriguing articles, I’ve bookmarked them for you. And I read a study from the Mayo Clinic on bilateral sound and downloaded a few sample tracks, we can play them later.” She said excitedly, “Oh, and I stopped by the hospital to get some more of your prescriptions,” she rifled around in her bag and pulled out a rattling paper package, “I asked for some ariprazole, too, might be worth a try. Nothing wrong with a happy hippocampus.”

Fitz paused where he was totting up card receipts; “Ariprazole? Isn’t that an anti-psychotic?”

Jemma flushed, looking sheepish, “It can be used for that, yes, but it can also help left-right brain stimulation, and it shouldn’t have any nasty side effects when mixed with your other medications.”

Fitz considered her for a moment then shrugged, going back to his counting, “Well, you’re the biochemist. I trust you.”

They worked in silence for a moment, Fitz steeling himself to say more. At last, he began.

“You know, I think I actually remembered something on my own, earlier.” Jemma immediately stopped where she was busy drying a cracked Star Trek mug.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Well, it’s hard to know for sure,” he gave her a half smile, lifting one shoulder nonchalantly, “but I think maybe it was something from my work, you know, from before. I think I might have worked with someone called Coulson.”

Jemma dropped the mug, shattering it completely.

“Oh _shit!_ Sorry!” She cried, hurrying to fetch his dustpan and brush. Fitz watched her, bemused. Simmons did not swear.

“It’s okay.” He soothed, moving forward to help her where she was scrabbling to clean up the shards, “That one was on its way out anyway. Seriously Jemma, it’s fine.”

She sat back on her knees, sighing.

“I’m sorry. I was just so intent on what you were saying, my hand must have slipped.” She shook her head as though she were trying to clear it, then turned and beamed at him, “But that’s _excellent_ Fitz! Really terrific. When did it happen?”

“This morning. Ah, and a few months ago too, actually. I wasn’t sure about what it was at the time,” he said quickly off Jemma’s look of indignation, “but this morning I was.”

Jemma nodded, studying him with a clinical eye, switching to full doctor mode, “And how did you feel, when you had the recollection? Any discomfort? A headache, perhaps? Elevated pulse? Loss of vision?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It was too quick really, the moment I tried to think about it properly I got that wall again,” he screwed up his face, thinking, “but I felt sort of … happy? I guess? Not that exactly. I just … had a good feeling about him. I think I must have liked him, whoever he is.”

Simmons’ eyes were now soft as she watched him, a strange smile on her face. She cleared her throat and looked away, down at the broken mug.

“Well, this bodes well for tonight. Let’s finish up here and get back to my place for dinner. We can try some of those cognitive relaxation techniques I told you about.”

They wrapped up everything quickly before swinging by the bank and onto the shops to get what was needed for their evening meal. Fitz made a game of trying to slip things into their basket unnoticed. He got away with the hobnobs, but Jemma drew a line at the strawberry laces, citing the numerous odd chemical ingredients by heart as she shoved them back on the shelf.

Once they’d arrived at her flat Fitz put Jemma on veg duty while he poached the salmon, trying out different TV chef impressions to get her laughing, with mixed results.

Finally, full and happy, Fury curled up in one of the living room’s uncomfortable white armchairs, they settled down to begin the practical element of Jemma’s thesis. She brought in several thick folders, a notepad and pen and a mysterious cardboard box.

“Your mum put some things together for me,” Jemma began as she opened the lid, “from your time at the SHIELD Academy, and later as well. Now, one moment please.” She reached down to pick up her phone. Fitz raised his eyebrows as soothing, hypnotic music began to play from the speakers on the sideboard.

“It’s supposed to relax you,” Jemma explained, “and it’s meant to get in synch with your biorhythms, too. Have you finished your tea?”

Fitz wrinkled his nose but downed the rest of his now-cold cup of chamomile, “I don’t like drinking flowers.”

“It’s _calming_ ,” Jemma said sternly, before turning and rustling around in the box, “right, close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

Begrudgingly, Fitz complied. Jemma placed something soft and cotton in his grasp.

“Don’t open your eyes just yet, you need to explore the object with each of your applicable senses, one by one,” Jemma said. Fitz could hear her scribbling away on her notepad, “Feel it, slowly. Control your breathing like I taught you.”

Tentatively, he moved his hands across the fabric, “It’s a t-shirt.”

“Yes, that’s right, but it’s not a guessing game Fitz. Bring it up to your nose; breathe it in. Is the scent familiar?”

Fitz lifted the shirt and inhaled deeply, then smiled, “Yeah, but not from before. It smells like _you_.”

Jemma tutted. “Oh dear. It must have been in my wardrobe too long.”

Fitz opened his eyes. He was holding a faded SHIELD Academy top, sporting the agency’s logo and the words _Science and Logistics Division._ It really was remarkably soft.

“I must have worn it a lot,” he mused, “but it’d be too small for me now, I was a puny thing back then.”

“I’m sure you were very handsome.” Jemma said, smiling, “If a bit pasty.”

“Oi!”

“Okay, let’s try this,” Jemma continued, producing an old tattered photograph. There he was, puny and pasty indeed, and very young. He squinted hard.

“Is this from a _party?_ ” he asked incredulously.

“I think you’re at a bar,” Jemma murmured, shifting to stare down at the photo with him, “you must have been having a full university experience.”

“I was over in the States remember, I wouldn’t have been allowed in a pub under the age of 21.” He continued to look at the photo, searching for a spark of memory to no avail, “And there’s no way I would have got served looking like that.”

“Maybe you had friends to buy drinks for you. Do you recognise anyone else in the photo?”

Fitz turned his gaze away from his own awkward image to scan the rest of the picture. Next to him was a tall, clean-cut and chiselled man, looking in the same direction Fitz was. Instead of grimacing, like the younger Fitz has chosen to do, the man was smiling brightly at the mysterious photographer.

He felt that itch again at the back of his head as the music pulsed behind him.

“That bloke’s got a head shaped like a cabbage.” He said, slowly.

Jemma huffed, “Right. Anything else?”

“I don’t think I liked him.”

“Okay, good. That’s good,” Jemma started writing again, a smile on her face, “why do you think that?”

Fitz wrinkled his nose and shrugged, “Looks a bit of a berk. And like I said, he has a cabbage head. Eugh, so obnoxious. ‘Hi, I’m Milton!’” he froze, eyes widening.

“Milton?”

“Yeah! Yeah, his name’s Milton. And he’s the _worst._ ”

Jemma grinned at him, “Why?”

“Oh…” his conviction was leaving him, “I don’t know. Something to do with …” a sudden unwelcome calm came over him, like a white sheet being pulled over the canvas of his memory. He shook his head.

“I can’t think.”

Jemma nodded patiently, continuing to write, “That’s alright. This is an excellent start. You remembered another name!”

“I guess,” Fitz said dubiously, “but it’s not exactly what we’d call a breakthrough, is it? _Don’t_ say the steps thing.”

Jemma grinned again.

“Alright, I won’t. But it _is_ good, Fitz. You’re doing really well. Do you want to keep trying? You’re not too tired?”

There was a growing ache at base of his skull but Fitz shook his head, determined.

“I’m good. Let’s try one more.”

“Alright, If you’re sure,” Jemma ruffled around inside the box again, nibbling her lip thoughtfully, “here’s one. Close your eyes again, just breathe for a moment.”

Fitz did as instructed, trying to match his breath to the slow tempo of the music. After a minute or two, Jemma put something heavy in his outstretched hands.

He ghosted his fingers along it carefully, taking in the grooves of the metallic object: it was cold, with rounded edges and small screws – a multi-tool. Frowning, he felt out the object’s flat edge. There was an engraving there.

1 … 7.

_She abandoned you._

_She abandoned you because you’re_ **_pathetic._ **

Fitz dropped the tool quickly, opening his eyes and breathing in heavy, frantic pants. He was trembling violently.

“Fitz?” Jemma asked, worried, her hands coming up to steady him. He recoiled from her touch, eyes now darting around the room, looking for the source of that terrible, sneering voice. The music was now unbearably loud, the room spinning.

“ _Fitz._ ” Jemma reached out again, grabbing his head and turning it towards her, “ _Fitz._ It’s okay. You’re alright, I’m right here. Focus on me.”

He looked into her deep honey eyes, trying to regain control.

“She left.” He whispered.

“Who?” Jemma’s grip tightened, her face grey.

“I- I don’t know.” Fitz swallowed hard, closing his eyes again. Inexplicable tears began to fall, “But she left me. She just _left._ ”

“Oh _Fitz._ ” Jemma pulled her to him, fingers stroking through his curls as he began to sob uncontrollably, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It’s okay now, I’ve got you.” Her own voice was shaking as she continued to speak to him gently, ‘ _I love you’_ _s_ and ‘ _It’s alright’_ _s_ and gentle shushing sounds punctuating each of her caresses.

Eventually, Fitz began to calm down, his sobs subsiding, so he pulled away from Jemma to dab at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, attempting a watery smile.

“Wow,” he said shakily, “that technique really works.”

Jemma looked bereft, “It was too much, I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I’m so sorry.”

“No, Jemma, it was good.” Fitz moved to rub her back soothingly, “Not that last bit, obviously, but everything else... ” he gave her a genuine smile, “everything else was amazing.”

Jemma relented, “I suppose so. You know, that really was some remarkable recall, Fitz. I’m so proud of you.” She reached up to kiss him, smiling against his lips before turning to grab her notepad, “And I got some excellent notes for my thesis. Actually, the abruptness and severity of your emotional breakdown is truly _fascinating_ – ” she stopped herself, flushing.

“But mainly horrible, of course. Very horrible. Are you sure you’re alright now? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good.” Fitz said, smiling at her affectionately, “But I might take a quick shower, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. I’ll make you some proper tea. Decaf though, it’s getting late. And maybe one of your hobnobs?”

“Oh, at _least_ three.”

“Well alright, go on then. We can watch some telly too. Towels are in the airing cupboard.”

Fitz kissed her quickly again then headed to the bathroom.

Once the door was closed he leant back against it, releasing a long, shuddering breath.

That voice again. It’d been louder this time, more insistent. It had sounded like _him,_ only vile, monstrous, an arrogant demon.

He stripped and turned on the shower, preoccupied with the heaviness that was settling once more in the pit of his stomach. What had happened to him?

He stepped under the shower head, welcoming the heat of the pounding water, imagining it washing off the unclean feeling the voice had given him. He shuddered again, rubbing his hands over his face.

And who was _she_? Who’d left him? Whoever she was, she’d obviously meant a lot to him to produce such a visceral response. Had he had a girlfriend before Jemma? What had happened to her? What had he done to make her leave?

Whatever it was, it was obviously bad enough that she hadn’t bothered to get in touch after his accident, if she’d known about it all. And his mum had never mentioned anything, another worrying sign. He couldn’t manage loving someone and not telling his mum all about them.

How _could_ he have loved someone, really, before Jemma? He knew himself – the parts he could remember, anyway – and he knew he was a romantic soul. He loved wholly and completely and with all-consuming devotion. It took strength to keep his distance from Jemma, to stop himself clinging to her like a limpet. Even before they had gotten together, his love for her had been in orbit, waiting for the moment to fixate, to find its home.

He grabbed Jemma’s soothing herbal shampoo – the source of her lavender scent – and began to scrub violently, taking out his frustrations on his wet curls. Whatever had happened before, with whomever, it didn’t matter now. He only had room in his heart for Jemma.

He finished cleaning himself and turned off the shower, rubbing a towel through his hair before wrapping it around his waist. He flipped off Jemma as she gave him an inevitable wolf-whistle on the way to the bedroom, but grinned at the predictability.

She was his home. That was what mattered. Maybe his memories would return, maybe they wouldn’t, but with her he was safe.

He changed into his pyjamas, feeling calmer, and wandered back into the living room to find the lights dimmed, Jemma sat on the sofa in her own set of pjs, dotted with stars. On the table was a plate of biscuits and a gently steaming mug of tea.

“I’ve lined up a Planet Earth.” She told him, gesturing at the waiting TV, “One with lots of monkeys in.”

“Brilliant.” Fitz grinned, sitting down next to her and getting comfortable. Jemma pressed play and they sat companionably for a few moments, perfectly at ease. Then Jemma groaned.

“I forgot to bring in my tea.”

Fitz immediately got up and headed out to the kitchen, bringing back the forgotten drink and the rest of the packet of hobnobs (he had said _at_ _least_ three). When he returned to living room Jemma was beaming at him, doe-eyed and adoring.

“What?”

“Just you, fetching my tea for me. It’s very nice.”

Fitz snorted, “Oh yeah, it was a real hardship,” he plonked himself back down on the sofa, dropping a kiss on a still-starry-eyed Jemma’s head, “I’d dive through a hole in the universe for you Jem, you know that.”

She suddenly tensed under his touch, “What?”

“Steady on, I don’t mean that literally. That wormhole at the battle of New York looked nasty.” Fitz said, reaching forward for his first hobnob, “But I’m always happy to bring you your tea. Provided, y’know, I don’t have to fight aliens to do it.” He shot her a cheeky grin, which Jemma returned, a little weakly.

Fitz frowned for a moment but decided not to push her; they’d had an intense night, that was all. He pressed play on the remote again, settling down to let David Attenborough’s soothing voice wash over them.

++

Once the show had ended, they tidied away their mugs and slowly got ready for bed, brushing their teeth side by side before Jemma began her nightly cleansing routine, listening patiently as Fitz listed off the many merits of a monkey lab assistant.

They headed into the bedroom still lazily bouncing ideas back and forth, but then Jemma suddenly reached down and scooped Fury off the bed, placing him outside the door before shutting it firmly. Fitz looked at her, confused, as the cat gave an indignant miaow. Slowly, she began to grin.

“I know that look.” Fitz said warily, but he was starting to grin too, “It usually means trouble.”

Jemma laughed, moving into his personal space, her eyes dancing.

“I was just thinking, about us, before, and…” she trailed off, biting her bottom lip.

In synch, their breathing began to quicken, before they lunged for each other in tandem.

It felt like something breaking, a tidal wave of longing crashing down as they kissed, hands everywhere at once. Jemma was pulling off his t-shirt, then his pyjama bottoms, then tugging at her own as he worked at the buttons of her top. In moments they were both bare and panting.

There was a split-second pause as they both hovered at the precipice before falling onto the bed, entwined and moaning. Fitz’s mouth found her breasts, swirling his tongue across a taut nipple, inciting a hiss as Jemma’s hand moved to press him closer to her, keening as he bit, feather-soft.

Alight with desire, Jemma pushed at his head and scrambled to straddle him, leaving him free to gape in awe at the hourglass of her torso, the pendulous swing of her breasts. He reached upwards to touch them again, to glance his calloused hands all over her. He moved swiftly to hit her sweet spots, greedy for her sighs of lust, her stuttered moans, an addict desperate for another hit. Each sound went through him like some lovely knife, carving into his pounding, needy heart.

He took his hand lower, rushing over her to land with intent where – _oh fuck –_ she was already wet, _so_ wet and wanting and moaning his name, a long, drawn out cry that seemed to go on and on as he moved his thumb rapidly over that glorious nub of pleasure.

She moved hypnotically, gyrating into his touch so that the curve of her arse moved against where he was straining for her touch. A supernova burst forth beneath his fluttering eyelids, causing him to halt his movement across Jemma’s clit, just for a moment, but long enough for her to reach forward to claw at his chest.

 _“Fitz, Fitz._ ”

“I’m here Jem, I’m here, oh god, oh _fuck_.”

He was going to explode. He was going to come, now, far too soon. He shuffled upwards hurriedly, working to unwind the coil of arousal pulled tight inside himself. Jemma paused, wanton and tousled like a wayward Venus, her tongue poking forward to lick ravenously at her lips. Fitz moved his hand, covering his eyes tight to block out the overwhelmingly erotic sight.

“Just-just give me a moment.” He muttered, moving to press his spare hand at the base of his stomach.

Jemma gave a noise of amused understanding as she came to lie next to him. Her fingers began playing at the top of his thigh, tracing ticklish patterns: an enzyme, a nucleus, a strand of DNA. The touch was tantalising but still a welcome distraction. He focused, lips quirking, as her pinkie sketched out the chemical symbol for dopamine.

He peeked out at her, smiling, “You _nerd,_ Simmons.”

She caught her tongue between her teeth, her nose wrinkling in that ridiculous, adorable way as she leant in to kiss him again, slower now. For a time they moved against each other in broad, tender strokes, their tongues following a familiar trail of exploration, a gentle give and take.

Their legs intertwined, the ball of her foot running against his inner calf, entangled and adoring. Each press of their lips conveyed a promise, a secret, a declaration of deep, brutal love. The room seemed afloat, a bubble of unbreakable peace.

But soon the heat began to build once more. Jemma nipped at his bottom lip, swollen from kissing. He huffed against her mouth before moving to roll above her, feeling competitive.

He bent down to swirl his tongue around first her left nipple then her right, breaking off to blow hotly over the tight flesh, smirking as she kicked at him, gripping on to his shoulder with blunt, hungry nails. She pulled him closer in retaliation, causing the tip of his swollen cock to brush against her protruding hip bone. He gave an abrupt, unstoppable yelp.

Jemma grinned up at him wickedly. Her fingers pressed harder into his shoulder blades before letting go and coming round to grip him in her hand, stroking once; twice – he moved quickly to still her. He wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

He watched with satisfaction as Jemma’s disappointed frown morphed into a perfect ‘O’ of aroused shock as he slid, snake-like, down to press lavish, devoted kisses to her inner thighs. They parted almost immediately, revealing where she was glistening, ready for him. He looked up at her, framed magnificently above him.

“God.” He growled, the huff of his breath causing Jemma to twitch, eyelids heavy as she gazed at him, “You are so fucking beautiful.” And he dove in, lapping at her fervently as she sucked in a sharp breath, exhaling on a whimper that began as _yes,_ evolving in to an _oh god,_ then a _please, Fitz – oh please oh please oh please –_

Feeling generous, Fitz moved to wrap his mouth around her clit, humming steadily as he slipped a finger inside her, crooking it just so – _there._ Her whole body moved upwards, chasing the sensation as she gasped, clamping her thighs together unconsciously to hold him place. He smiled against her, pushing her further up that hill, eager for her to peak.

He loved her like this; open, out of control, her prim, proper accent now rough as she gave a hoarse shout, unintelligible but deeply desirous, the sound resonating in his very bones. He spread her just a little wider, adding a second finger to the fray, moving to flick his tongue over her core in quick, teasing movements before circling her clit once more, taking it into his mouth to suck on it with devious purpose.

A hitched gasp – another – and she was coming, tumbling over the edge with a heavy sob. She was gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, a vision from a dream, unravelled, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed as he sat up, wiping his mouth before grinning at her, triumphant.

For a moment she just stared back at him, limbless and sated, but then she was pulling him to her, kissing the salt from his lips as her legs came up and around him, ankles locking behind his back. The angle pushed him down into her wet heat, causing his eyes to cross as his body lit up like a firework display, fizzing and popping under his skin.

“Fitz. Need you, _now._ ” She spoke against his mouth, undulating her hips in case her meaning wasn’t clear, the tip of him pressing against her, so, so close. He tried to breathe, to clear his head.

“Are – are you sure?” He asked throatily, feeling her shudder at his thickened brogue. He pressed a kiss into her dampened skin, breathing in her musk, the lavender and salt and heady scent that was just pure Jemma. She moaned rapturously.

“Yes, _yes, please._ ”

He centred himself, turning his head to look into her eyes, the lust-heavy air filling with something sweeter, something more profound. He moved in minute, rocking motions, easing into her slowly. They moaned in unison, a deep sound pulled from the very hearts of them as he entered her fully, holding himself over her for an instant as her walls twitched around him.

He thrusted, once, twice, then again and again, finding a steady rhythm. It was like a Fibonacci sequence, a law of nature, wholly perfect. Fitz felt complete in this moment, inside her, bodies moving as one. All his burning questions, all his fears fell away as she answered the twist of his hips with her own, lips parted as she watched him.

“Love you.” He murmured, dizzy with sensation, “Love you.”

Jemma nodded, breathless, “I – I love you.”

Their pace was intoxicatingly slow, but Fitz realised, suddenly, terribly, that he still was not going to last much longer. He pulled Jemma further into his chest, causing her to hiss in pleasure at the increased friction, “I’m close.” He said desperately, speaking into the crook of her neck, “Are you – can you?”

Jemma’s hand moved down to where there two bodies joined, a finger coming to glide against herself as she made a whimpering noise of ascent, “Just a little – go _harder_. Oh god, harder Fitz, _please_.”

He obeyed, clenching his teeth as he clung to the paper-thin edges of his control. Her hand was moving quickly between them now as she flung her head back, baring her splendid throat. He crooned as he moved inside her at an impossible pace, his vision blurring as she tightened around him.

“Come on Jemma, oh god, fuck, _come on, Jemma._ You’re so beautiful, please, _please._ ”

“ _Yes!_ ” she shouted, “ _Fitz, yes, yes, yes_ –” her cries became incoherent as she found her release, clinging to him almost painfully. Relieved, overwhelmed, head over heels he followed her, matching her in volume and intensity, their voices mingling as they slowed.

They stayed for a moment as a whole, stunned and spent, then Fitz moved away from her, his body mourning the loss.

They turned to look at each other, still breathing heavily and smiling wide. Jemma shifted forwards to press sloppy kisses to his cheek.

“That. Was. _Amazing._ ” She said, switching to nip affectionately at his ear.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” Fitz agreed dazedly, wrapping a sweaty arm around her. They continued to smile at one another, content in the afterglow, before Jemma suddenly wrinkled her nose.

“This bed is disgusting. And I need to do a wee so I don’t get a urinary tract infection.”

Fitz choked out a disbelieving laugh, “ _Jemma!_ We were having a moment.”

She paused where she was already scrambling out of bed. “Sorry,” she said contritely, “I love you, that was wonderful, I feel so connected to you right now… shall I bring you back some tissues?”

Fitz sighed and moved to stand up too, “No, you go … do your thing, and I’ll go after. I’ll strip the bed, then we can put on new sheets together?”

She looked at him warmly, “I really do love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too. Go piss.”

She giggled, scooping up her abandoned pyjamas as she left the room.

++

_**Wakey wakey, Fitz.** _

He woke with a start, breathing hard. His head lay not on fresh sheets, the contours of Jemma’s orthopaedic pillows, but on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. All around him were pages and pages of notes; some looked like code, others sketches and specs, various others showed complex formulas, all tying together in an impossible, terrifying loop.

But there was more; some pages had been torn up or scribbled over violently. He gathered them up, finding conflicting penmanship, one harsh and heavy and another he recognised as his usual careful scribing, though tinged with panic. Fragments said _stop_ and _no_ and one, one that made his heart jump into his throat, said:

_Protect Simmons. Leave._

There was a sudden rap at the door, followed by Jemma calling, “Fitz? Are you in there?”

“Um, yeah,” he said frantically gathering up the rest of the paper in shaking fistfuls, “be out in a moment.”

“Alright.” Jemma said, her tone amused, “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

“Yep. Great, thanks.”

He heard her heading away down the corridor and paused for a moment, taking in the still chaotic scene around him. What had happened? What was all this?

_Protect Simmons._

From what? From _himself?_ Slowly, he opened the bathroom door, ducking his head out to check Jemma was distracted before jogging hastily to the bedroom, stuffing the paper into his backpack.

He couldn’t tell her. He knew he should, but he couldn’t. These notes, they were the scribblings of an insane person, a psychopath. What if it scared her? What if she _left?_

_She wouldn’t._

_She_ **_might._ **

He slowed his breathing, trying to focus.

Okay; he wouldn’t tell her just yet. He’d take the notes to the shop, try and work out what they were, clear his head a bit. Then, once he had a better handle on what exactly it was he was dealing with, he’d come clean.

The way last night had ended, what they’d shared … he didn’t want to ruin that now.

He got dressed quickly and grabbed his bag before heading into the kitchen. Jemma looked up from where she was laying out cereal on the breakfast bar, inquisitive, “Everything alright?”

“Fine, just a bit of a funny tummy.”

Jemma raised her eyebrows but didn’t pry further, which was what he’d been hoping for.

“Well, there’s an anti-acid in your pill cocktail, hopefully it should help.” She gestured to the neat pile of tablets to the left of his cereal bowl, brightly coloured and cheerful. She too had a mix of smaller, less vibrant pills – most likely all multivitamins, but he usually found it sweet that she kept him company. Usually.

He smiled and picked up the first pill, making a show of swallowing it with a gulp of tea, prompting Jemma to chuckle and roll her eyes.

He carried on working his way through the pile, nodding at suitable intervals as Simmons bustled around the kitchen, talking aimlessly to him about the day ahead.

Then, when her back was turned, he ducked under the counter to cough, spitting the un-swallowed pills into his hand and pocketing them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, will no doubt post again very soon as we're all in isolation and this is more exciting than my actual job. x


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They sat in silence for a few minutes, Hunter watching Fitz’s deftly moving fingers and sipping his tea, but Fitz himself was brooding.
> 
> Finally, as he unpacked the phone’s stacked circuit board, he spoke, “What was the worst day of your life?”
> 
> Hunter gulped his drink heavily, looking confused, “Why the hell would you want to know that?”
> 
> Fitz sighed, pausing for a moment and picking up his own mug, “I don’t know. Just … for me, it’d be the day I got my A Level results. My mum tried to hide them from my dad but he found out. He was so … sad. Jealous, even. I could deal with him when he was angry. When he was angry he was just a mean bastard, but that was the first time I realised how weak he was.” He drank his tea, still deep in thought, “You think your parents are gods when you’re a kid, no matter how they treat you. Seeing him as a man, that was what made it the worst.”

Fitz looked up from where he had been scrutinising one of the sheets of complex code he’d discovered that morning, trying to work out what the hell it was supposed to do, to find Hunter entering the shop with his usual nonsense bravado.

“Two scratch cards and a packet of liquorice all sorts please, my good man.” He whinnied in a put-on proper-posh tone, leaning on the counter and flashing Fitz what was most likely meant to be a winning smile.

“Not that kind of shop,” Fitz intoned, sliding the paper away from himself as casually as he could manage, “what y’doing here?”

“A friend can’t just drop in on a friend?”

“A friend maybe, but not you. What do you want?”

Hunter gave him a hurt look, “You wound me, Leopold. I was simply in the area and thought I’d come cheer up your morning with some decent conversation.”

Fitz raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“Oh alright, my phone’s on the fritz, thought you could have a quick look at it for me.” He dropped a beaten iPhone onto the counter’s surface. It was cracked and slightly warped.

“Bloody hell, what did you do to it?”

Despite Fitz’s eagerness to get back to sifting through the manic, mysterious notes he seemed to have made in his sleep, his curiosity was getting the better of him.

“Nothing! It’s just normal wear and tear!”

Fitz made a noise of derision but picked up the phone anyway. He liked a good challenge.

“Yeah well, this ‘normal wear and tear’ isn’t something that could _normally_ be fixed,” he flipped the phone in the air and caught it again with a flourish, “give me an hour.”

Hunter grinned. “Cheers mate. How about I pay you in tea? I’ll go put the kettle on.”

“You can pay in money.” Fitz called after Hunter as he stepped round the counter and pushed open the door to the backroom, whistling off-key.

“Yeah, yeah – what the – blimey, what are you _working on_?”

Fitz froze where’d he already begun to take off the back of the phone before scrambling into the workshop, “Nothing! Nothing, just exploring some new ideas, that’s all.”

He moved past the gaping cockney to stand in front of the maze of sketches and notes he had found earlier that morning, ears reddening. Hunter swore impressively under his breath, but then shrugged and turned his attention to making the tea.

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me, but then again it doesn’t look like something either – never really had time for the sciences at school, left it to boffins like you,” He tapped a teaspoon against Fitz’s head, prompting him to scowl, “You and Simmons working on it together?”

“Um, no, not yet. I’m just in the initial planning stages at the mo’, don’t want to bore her with it,” Fitz said with careful nonchalance, scratching at the back of his neck, “Y’know, what with her being so busy and all.”

“Fair enough,” Hunter said slowly, walking to the fridge, “she messaged about those kids wrecking your place by the way. Sounded like a right mess.”

Fitz nodded distractedly, moving to stand in the doorway so he could keep an eye on the main shop, “Yeah, yeah … happens quite a lot apparently.”

“Still, must be a pain.”

“Well, yeah, we’re staying at hers until I can get it sorted, meant to be heading back tonight to start tidying.” His twisted his mouth, “To be honest, I’ll be relieved when it’s done, Simmons’ place is a bit clinical.”

Hunter passed him a mug, looking amused, “Yeah? Must be rough for you to be saying a bad word against her.”

“I’m not! I’m not,” Fitz said hastily, sitting himself back down by the counter as Hunter dragged in another chair from out the back, “it’s just, so unlike her. She’s so warm and it’s so … not that. It’s weird, actually.”

He found himself drifting for a moment, struck by just how peculiar it was that Jemma’s place was so bland and free of personality, but Hunter reeled him back into conversation with an aggressively sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“Agreeing on interior decor when you’re in a relationship is tricky,” he commiserated, “I remember when me and Bob first got our own place. Can you believe she wouldn’t even let me hang my signed Crouch poster? “

“That’s because Crouch is shite,” Fitz countered, turning back to Hunter’s phone, “I’ve seen his play from the Liverpool years, did he sign that for you before or after the goal drought?”

“Oh piss off. I’m still not convinced you haven’t just conveniently forgotten the last 16 years because of how rubbish your beloved United got after Fergie left.”

Fitz paused his work, expression pained, “Yeah, that did hurt, waking up and finding out he’d abandoned us.” He sighed, “I imagine that was the worst day of my life.”

Hunter chuckled darkly, “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Looking up quickly, Fitz frowned, “What’s that supposed to be mean?”

Hunter shrugged awkwardly, “Oh … just, a lot of bad stuff has happened since the early 00s. Alien invasions, for example. And Nazis. And that fourth Indiana Jones movie.”

“That was bad,” Fitz muttered in agreement, “no idea why you made me watch it. Can you pass me the A1 lithium screwdriver?”

“Er…”

“The really small one. Yep – cheers.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Hunter watching Fitz’s deftly moving fingers and sipping his tea, but Fitz himself was brooding.

Finally, as he unpacked the phone’s stacked circuit board, he spoke, “What _was_ the worst day of your life?”

Hunter gulped his drink heavily, looking confused, “Why the hell would you want to know that?”

Fitz sighed, pausing for a moment and picking up his own mug, “I don’t know. Just … for me, it’d be the day I got my A Level results. My mum tried to hide them from my dad but he found out. He was so … sad. Jealous, even. I could deal with him when he was angry. When he was angry he was just a mean bastard, but that was the first time I realised how _weak_ he was.” He drank his tea, still deep in thought, “You think your parents are gods when you’re a kid, no matter how they treat you. Seeing him as a man, that was what made it the worst.”

“How old were you?” Hunter asked quietly.

“Ten. He left a week later. Good riddance and all that, things were better just me and my mum, I wasn’t so scared all the time. But I did love him. He told me I was worthless every day of my life, but I still did.” He sighed, turning to Hunter with a half-smile, “Not sure why I’m telling you all this.”

For a moment Hunter just looked at him, his expression unreadable, and then he put down his mug and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a hipflask and poured a hefty shot into his half-drunk tea before offering it to Fitz, who shook his head.

“There was a time, a few years ago now, when I thought everyone I loved was dead. There was … an attack, and I thought; if they’re gone, that’s it. I’m going too. Longest day of my life.” Hunter closed his eyes for a moment, taking a long drink of his boozy tea and breathing shakily, “That’s my worst memory. That or my wedding day, of course.”

Fitz snorted, more to release tension than because of the bad joke. But he wasn’t ready to drop the subject just yet. Steeling himself, he spoke again.

“The thing is, now I don’t think that actually _was_ the worst day of my life, the one where I got my results. Recently, I’ve started to feel like it wouldn’t even be in the top ten. I think something bad happened to me, in the years I can’t remember,” he hesitated, “that’s not true. I think it was me. I think I did something that hurt people.” He turned to Hunter, eyes appealing, “Does that make me mad?”

“No, mate,” Hunter said softly, “you’re not mad. Not that I think you’d have done anything to deliberately hurt anyone,” he added hastily, “but I get how you might be worried that you did.”

Fitz nodded, reaching up to carry on working on the phone. For a moment, they were silent once more.

“What does Jemma think, about you feeling that way? What did she say?”

“I’ve not told her.” Fitz said curtly, “I don’t want her worrying. Besides, we’ve started on those cognitive recall sessions for her thesis. If it does turn out I’m some sort of monster, she’ll be the first to know.”

“You’re not a monster.” Hunter said decisively, “A bit of a twat, sometimes, yeah. But not a monster. Besides, every light needs a shadow.”

Something was itching at the back of Fitz’s head again. He turned to his friend slowly, “What did you say?”

“Oh, some bollocks I saw on a hippy fridge magnet once. Doesn’t matter.” Hunter smiled, leaning forward, “Come one then, what’s the damage?”

After another round of tea and a fierce debate about the _Star Wars_ franchise Hunter left. Fitz was relieved. He was now free to go back to work on deciphering his strange unconscious scrawling. He pulled the paper towards him, then reached over to open his odds-and-ends drawer where he kept his highlighters. An icy dread slid through him as he looked down.

The drawer did have a highlighter in it. It also contained several business cards, some gum, and what looked like hundreds of pages of more notes, scribbled manically in different coloured pens.

Horrified, he began to scoop them up in handfuls and place them on the counter, spreading them out as he tried to discern on just how many separate occasions he’d been doing this and when these apparent fugue states had occurred. Among the fresh code and design specs were quickly written asides:

_Simmons was at Hydra_

_Mackenzie has the gravitonium device._

_~~Simmons can help -~~ _

_~~Tell her~~ _

_Look into Shaw Industries_

_GET TO THE UNIVERSITY LAB_

_Time loop: see notes on interdimensional travel: Pym?_

_Quake is Skye. She will be useful._

_~~He~~ _ _**You** hurt Daisy_

_You need to take your medication_

_~~Jemma Jemma Jemma Jemma Jemma~~ _

_Coulson?_

_Shaw has been stealing from us_

That icy sensation returned, more powerful than before.

“Don’t bother panicking.” A clipped, bored voice came from behind him, “It will only waste time.”

Fitz’s hand was shaking. He closed his eyes tight.

“No.”

“No? No what?”

“You’re not here.” Fitz’s eyes flew open again, just in time to see the source of the antagonising voice swagger into view.

It was him.

“I’m always here, Fitz.” The man made Fitz’s name sound like dirt on the end of his highly-polished shoe, “I’m _part_ of you.” His tone became sing-song, mocking.

“No. I got rid of you. I stopped you.”

The Doctor leant forward. He stared straight into the trembling Fitz’s terror-wide eyes, hissing maliciously:

“There is no stopping me.”

“Oh _really!_ ” Fitz and the Doctor blinked in unison at the unexpected third voice. They both turned, confused, to find an impatient Simmons, arms crossed, rolling her eyes, “Why do you _insist_ on talking like some megalomaniacal 80s movie super villain? It’s ridiculous.”

“Jemma?” Fitz croaked in disbelief as the Doctor up righted himself with a groan. Simmons smiled at him.

“Don’t worry Fitz, we’ll fix this. Together.”

++

Jemma sat back to review the report she had been happily typing for the last twenty minutes, satisfied. The night before had been a resounding success, both personally _and_ professionally. Really, Mack worried too much, she knew exactly what she was doing. Speaking of which …

Her phone was vibrating, a blocked number again.

“Hello?”

“Simmons. Do you want to tell me why you deactivated all the bugs in your apartment last night?” Daisy drawled insinuatingly.

“Ah,” Jemma flushed, shifting in her chair, “um…”

“It’s fine, I’ve got you covered, I just mixed in some old recordings of you guys snoring, in case anyone requests the full audio file.”

“Oh. Thank you?”

“No problem. The only person who might want to listen the whole thing is Fox, and I think even _he_ fast forwards through the unconscious parts.”

“ _What?_ Why’s Fox listening to them?”

“He thinks you guys are cute.” Daisy was clearly enjoying this, “I think Davis or someone told him your life story and now he’s like, obsessed. He practically begged me to share your wedding video with him. I get it, I’m absolutely onboard with the good ship Fitzsimmons. Plus it doesn’t do any harm to have someone else rooting for you right?”

“Daisy! Some of those files are _incredibly_ personal!”

“Oh _sure._ That forty minute argument about which Avenger you’d be was super sensitive. You were wrong by the way, Fitz is a _total_ Banner. I mean, he hulks out when we’re out of Cheetos – ”

“Or when he has a psychotic break and turns from the man we love and trust into a psychopath from an imaginary world. I felt it was a bit too on the nose, actually.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

There was a moment’s awkward pause before Daisy continued.

“Anyway, Fox isn’t listening in just so he can swoon over you. He’s been working on the old framework code, trying to work out patterns and behaviours that might have motivated Fitz to … you know. Switch off. He’s been really helping out.”

“Oh,” Jemma found herself softening, “that’s actually very good of him. You must thank him for me.”

“I will, a thank you from the great Agent Jemma Simmons will make his _year._ As will the recording from last night!” Daisy sounded bouncy, “Jemma, that bilateral sound thing totally worked! I can’t believe it’s based on that creepy Hydra brainwash stuff!

“Well, yes, I was reluctant to try it at first, but given a moralistic application it really _is_ a marvel. But honestly, I have Bobbi to thank for tracking it down.”

“Sure, but I’ve not told you enough, you’re being so _strong_ through all this. Having Fitz right there and just … being patient. Trying to coax him out day after day. You’re a goddamn hero.”

Jemma smiled, feeling oddly tearful, “I couldn’t have done it without all your help, you know that. But yes, it has been … difficult, at times. To show restraint.”

“Is that why you jumped his bones last night? Hoping a roll in the hay would shake something loose?”

“I – _no!_ It just felt right,” Jemma could feel herself flushing again, “oh, but it was _wonderful –_ ” Suddenly she halted, a sense of panic creeping over her, “Actually. An intense sensory experience such as sexual intercourse – ”

“ _Whoa mama!”_

“- _might_ trigger something. And he was acting rather odd this morning. Gosh, and I haven’t heard from him yet. He normally would have texted me by now!”

“Simmons _relax,_ Hunter’s with him remember? He’ll be reporting in any moment. Probably just got derailed talking about sports or whatever.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Anyway, this isn’t even the main reason I called. Benson’s done some work on those samples you took from Skrüll but he’s struggling. We need the number one expert on inhuman biology … got a few hours? We can pick you up in thirty, the Alpha team have just wrapped up an op over in Portugal.”

Jemma sighed, closing her laptop, “Alright. But I better be back in time to feed the cat.”

“Oh, for sure.”

++

“Ignore her.” The Doctor commanded through gritted teeth, “We have urgent business to attend to.”

“Oh yes, I know all about your little escape plan. You know you monologue, don’t you? It’s exhausting.” Simmons tutted, “If you hadn’t been stopping to stroke your ego every five minutes, you probably would have figured it out _months_ ago.”

“I will _muzzle_ you.” The Doctor bit out, smooth façade slipping as Simmons rolled her eyes again.

“Jemma,” Fitz cut in, shakily, “you need to go, it’s not safe.”

Both the Doctor and Simmons looked at him, then each other, eyebrows raised.

“Fitz …” Simmons said slowly, “you know I’m not physically here, don’t you?”

“ _What?”_

“Oh for the love of – ” The Doctor paused, taking in a calming breath, “you really are _pathetic._ ”

“He’s just taking a moment to adjust! You’re the one who’s been messing with his head, hijacking his conscious and stopping him from taking his medication – ”

 _“What?_ ”

“That _woman_ was using it to poison him, manipulate him. Really, I’m almost impressed. I never understood what he could possibly see in her until now. Keeping him on her lead like a trained monkey, subject to her trivial whims.”

“She’s protecting him!”

“She’s controlling him. _Using_ him. But she slipped up last night, didn’t she? Giving into those base animal urges, all that disgusting _rutting –_ ”

“ _They’re in love._ I wouldn’t expect you to understand you, you psychopathic _robot_ – ”

“ _Both of you, shut it!”_ Fitz yelled. “I need time to think.”

Simmons and the Doctor both stopped, looking askance, but relented.

Fitz put his head in his hands, breathing slowly: _in for four, out for seven…_

He was hallucinating. He was hallucinating Jemma, and he was hallucinating himself – his dark self, the Doctor.

 _Leopold._ The framework. And then – but wait, there was more before all that. SHIELD Academy, Sci-Ops, the Bus, _Ward –_

The ocean. Jemma, _screaming._ Jemma gone. Jemma stolen. Jemma in his arms, surrounded by the rubble of the monolith. Jemma kissing him, Jemma laughing, Jemma stood in a beating, illusional sun, waiting for him, bouquet in hand.

And then, and _then._

“You shot her. You shot Jemma.”

The Doctor huffed derisively, “ _We_ shot her. To get the job done.”

“Daisy.” Fitz said faintly, “Oh _god._ ”

“You were only doing what was necessary. You were trying to save us all!” Simmons stepped forward, reaching out, but he turned away from her.

“ _You could have died._ ” He bit out. “I pointed a gun at my own – my own. Oh _fuck_.”

“Technically,” The Doctor said, examining his impeccable nails, “you programmed an android to point a gun at her. She was the disobedient bitch who couldn’t follow orders.”

Fitz growled, pushing himself up and starting towards the Doctor. Unmoved, the man raised his eyebrows.

“Getting into a fist fight with your own psyche would be idiotic even for you. Besides, like I said, we have work to do. So if we can hurry up with this _fascinating_ trip down memory lane …”

“If you say one more word against Simmons – ”

“Fitz, it’s okay.” Simmons said herself from behind him, her voice placating, “He’s just a part of you. A part we can control! You just need to concentrate.”

“And you!” Fitz wield around, still furious, “You’ve been lying to me! For nearly two _years!_ You made me think I was … that I was _normal._ That I was _safe._ Christ, Jemma, you’ve been sharing a _bed_ with me!”

“I’m not Jemma.” Simmons said firmly, “I’m … you called me your conscience, once.”

“Like Jiminy Fucking Cricket.” The Doctor muttered, but held up a cool hand off of Simmons’ glare.

“I’m another part of you. A part that can help you. Like Jemma is trying to do! She didn’t want to overwhelm your mind after you, we – ”

“We erased our memory.” Fitz murmured, eyes widening, “The team went to fight Talbot and we got in a machine, like the one they used on Coulson – ”

“ _You_ erased it,” the Doctor huffed, “because you’re _weak._ You wouldn’t accept just how much you were capable of, the greatness you could achieve if you just listened to me!”

“You’re monologing again.” Simmons said loudly.

“But why would I forget _you_?” Fitz asked Simmons desperately, appealing, “Why would I erase Jemma?”

“You thought it was for the best. I tried to stop you, but you said she’d be better off without you. And the machine, it wasn’t as … stable, as the original. I don’t think it worked properly.”

The Doctor snorted again, stepping forward, “Enough exposition. As repulsive as last night was, it seems to have been the kick you needed to finally get to work. And just in time. We need to get to Shaw Industries. _Now._ Before that unbearable dolt in the back wakes up and makes a mess.”

Fitz blanched, running into the backroom to find Hunter passed out on the floor.

“The tea!”

“‘The tea!’ ‘Simmons!’ ‘What have I done?’ Will you stop your incessant _whining._ ” The Doctor hissed.

“It’s okay, Fitz. He’ll wake up soon. You haven’t done any permanent damage,” Simmons said soothingly, “and, well … we really do need to go. We need to get to LA to see Deke.”

“ _Deke?_ ” Fitz felt whiplashed as more memories flooded in, “Deke … we’ve been hacking into his code.”

“That’s right.” The Doctor said, smugly, “Really, it was almost _too_ easy. A gaming system … god, your spawn is truly pitiful. And that _acronym_.”

“It is bad.” Fitz agreed, then shook himself, “Wait, Remorath Rumble, you’ve been – I’ve been – _shit._ ” He tugged at his hair, near tears, “We need to go.”

Simmons smiled, “Your ticket’s booked, if we leave right now we’ll still make it.”

The Doctor narrowed his eyes, “What are you up to?”

“Why, are you scared? I thought I meant nothing to you?” Simmons bit back.

“Simmons, you’re _everything._ ” Fitz breathed.

“Okay. I’ve had enough of this.” The Doctor stepped forward, grim “Whatever ridiculous scheme you try and hatch won’t work,” his face morphed into a smile of villainous delight, “time to go back in your box. The Doctor is _in._ ”

++

“This is _amazing,_ Agent Fox!” Jemma breathed, turning the page of his incredibly thorough and remarkably thick report.

Fox looked like he was on cloud nine. He came to read over Jemma’s shoulder, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

“Oh, this page is interesting! You’ll see here, I’ve corroborated the Hydra code with your notes on what motivated the Doctor; you can see how influential the application of fear and pain were in – ”

“Shaping the super ego. Gosh, running binary against psychological theory … this is truly brilliant, Agent. Really, you’re wasted in Operations. With a mind like yours, you belong in the lab.”

“Well, actually, I was planning on applying to the Academy, the science division, once you and Fitz get it back up and running.” He blushed at Jemma’s raised eyebrows, “Um, if you do, I mean.”

“Director Mackenzie is still telling people that’s the plan, is he? For someone who’s so against my approach to recuperating Fitz’s memory, he seems happy enough to decide what we’ll be doing once he’s back.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“He’s just worried about you guys. And it wasn’t him who said it anyway, it was Agent May.”

Jemma found herself grinning in surprise.

“ _May?_ ”

“That’s right.” Jemma jumped as the older agent wheeled into the room. Even without working legs, she still managed to sneak up on people, “And that code hasn’t just been useful for analysis on Fitz. I’ve asked Fox to look into the framework’s initial structure. If we can get the grid back up, I can finally get back to training–”

“You’ve been what?” Jemma practically growled, “ _Agent May._ That is _extremely_ dangerous, the framework is one of the most destructive _–”_

“It’s no more dangerous than what you’re doing with Fitz. Less so, probably. Like you said, the framework is all 0s and 1s. You’re trying to re-program a human mind.”

Jemma bristled, “Well. If you really want me to even consider using that code, we need Fitz.”

“We’d have Fitz if you hadn’t left him behind when he was needed for the fight!” May barked, startling Fox and Simmons.

May had been like this since that op in Chicago, where her body had been broken. And then, with Coulson ... Jemma tried to remind herself of this fact. May had lost so much. More than she had, even.

But she’d been made of steel, before. This new May, this raw, exposed nerve – she could be unpredictable. It was why, as a rule, Jemma tried to avoid her.

Fox broke the tense silence first, clearing his throat with what Jemma thought of as extraordinary courage.

 _A good egg, that one,_ she mused.

“Um, well, we’ve got a pretty good understanding of how the Darkhold was merged with Agent Fitz’s code now, so … not right away, obviously, but when he’s back, we could look into using it as he intended. To help people.” He tried a weak smile, causing both women to thaw slightly.

“Okay,” Jemma conceded, “we’ll talk about it, alright? But please, put your research on pause for now. I’m sure what you’ve done so far is great, Agent Fox,” – the agent actually _blushed,_ it made her think, longingly, of Fitz – “but the framework is not something we should just be jumping back into. Not after all the damage it’s done.”

May looked like she was going to argue again, but she was interrupted by a distressed Daisy running into the room.

“Jemma! Have you heard from Fitz?”

Jemma startled, pulling her phone from her pocket. In the rush of examining Skrüll’s DNA and Fox’s fascinating detour, she’d lost track of the time.

“No new messages,” she managed to say through her panic, “and he should have called at one. Has Hunter not checked in?”

“Not with us, or with Bobbi. Davis is on his way to shop now. But Simmons, Hunter’s phone is off. And we can’t trace either of their locations. Either the devices aren’t working, or – ”

“Or they’ve been destroyed.” Jemma heard herself speak from what felt like a great distance. She closed her eyes, willing herself to stop shaking.

“Mack …” Daisy hesitated before continuing, “Mack asked Hunter to place a new recording device at the shop. If he got it done, maybe we can figure out what happened. Who knows, maybe they just went to go get drunk.” The joke ran hollow, Daisy’s face pale and fearful.

Jemma leant forward onto the table to steady herself, “I did this. I got caught up in my own bloody fantasy. And now…”

“Now’s not the time for blame.” May said, tone firm but not unkind, “Davis will report in, we’ll figure out where we are, and we’ll fix it. Think, Simmons. Since the break in, has anything changed in his behaviour? Anything that might help us?”

“Someone will need to feed the cat.” Jemma murmured, eyes glazing with tears.

++

He was on a plane. He’d obviously been on the plane for quite some time. In less than six hours, he would be in LA.

“I love this show.” The Doctor said lazily. _Westworld_ was playing on the screen in front of them.

“Welcome back, Fitz. Don’t worry, we’ve been perfectly civil. Well, I had to deal with an absolute _ape_ in security, asking all sorts of idiotic questions about our luggage, but I handled it peacefully enough. We need to keep a low profile.”

Fitz opened his mouth to speak.

“Shhh, don’t want to scare your fellow passengers now, do you? Just relax.” He smiled, “If you don’t, I have a _very_ nifty little device on our person that can motivate you to stay quiet. That little girl’s so sweet, isn’t she?” He cooed sinisterly.

Fitz looked across the aisle, where six-or-so year old with a ribbon in her hair was buried in the second Harry Potter book.

 _Where’s Simmons?_ He thought as hard as he could. The Doctor chuckled.

“The beast is back in her cage. Don’t worry, she might come in handy later, she’s the only one who can stomach that appalling grandson of yours. Now relax, watch the show. The fun will begin soon.”

On screen, a woman fell to the floor, bleeding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And once again, my sincere thanks for reading.  
> Plot is hard.  
> Also erm, I've gone back and corrected 'Weller' to 'Keller'. But Fox is 100% correct.  
> #FoxLIVES


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His glee was childish but entirely endearing, and Jemma felt a sudden wave of affection for her friend. She was struck by the wondrous nature of the universe to place them here, side by side, thousands of miles from where they’d both grown up but still completely at home in each other’s company.
> 
> Fitz turned to face her again, grin widening when he saw she was smiling to.

_He needed to find the words to say – to explain –_

_“I think you are perfect_.”

_As he spoke, red bloomed spectacularly across the lace bodice of her dress, a scarlet rose._

_“And I don’t deserve you Jemma.”_

_Her hands slipped from his, smearing him with blood._

_“I don’t.”_

_He willed himself to stay straight and proud, staring dead ahead as the doors of the grand room opened behind him and the music began to play. But he could never resist her. He turned to see._

_She was magnificent. Her dark hair was twisted into an elegant chignon, framing her delicate, but oh-so strong features. She walked towards him unlead, gliding with impossible grace. A goddess, a queen, a –_

_“Leopold!”_

_But she was burning, burning alive, and all he could do was watch._

“Ophelia!”

The man in the window seat beside him shook his newspaper, using the movement as an excuse to sneak him a look of embarrassed confusion. Fitz awoke fully but uneasily.

“How does it feel?” The Doctor asked coldly, “To know that your so-called friends murdered the woman you love?”

_That wasn’t love. She used me. She manipulated my mind, twisted my memories._

“So you have a type.”

_It isn’t the same thing._

“No, it isn’t. Ophelia built a whole world for us to rule, to match the brilliance of our minds. She saw your potential and she made you a god. That _woman_ coddled and cowed you like some snivelling infant.”

_She was protecting me._

“Really? Protecting you, or protecting her own interests? Think about it Fitz: all this time … nearly two years. Day by day, hour after hour she was by your side, chirping and twittering like some brainless bird, keeping you in the dark. _Controlling_ you. Feeding you those poisonous pills and lies, lies, lies. Is that love, do you think?”

_She was trying to fix me._

“I don’t need fixing. I _never_ did. But the way you bend to other people’s wills, _god_ … no wonder father left.”

Before he could respond Fitz reeled as, unbidden, duelling lives flooded his mind:

His father, spitting in his face.

His father, telling him he was proud of him.

His mother, holding him tight at the airport, whispering a thousand tender goodbyes.

His mother, turning away from him; _I don’t know you anymore._

Jemma, stirring sleepily after a long night studying, grinning up at him from where she had been drooling on his dorm room pillow.

Ophelia taking his hand, smiling, as she opened the door to a place where they could build their dreams together.

Emotions clashed against one another like blunt but fatal blades as he tried to separate the two worlds. It was like waking up in the oil rig again, all those years ago. Or when Jemma had stepped into the room to find him holding a scalpel, and he realised he’d been the one hurting his friends –

His friends.

Mack, punching him in the arm after a good shot in Halo. Hunter sitting back with glee after delivering a filthy, terrible punchline to a too-long joke. Bobbi rolling her eyes as he yelled at her for mislabelling a sample. May handing him a cup of tea, ordering him to get some sleep. Coulson, bouncing on his feet as he looked at the specs for his new arm, suggesting a shield. Daisy – _Daisy,_ clutching him tight as he told her it was okay, she was just different now.

_Ophelia didn’t make you a great man. She stripped you of everything and everyone that makes me who I am and turned you into a weapon._

“Oh, wow. Spare me. We’re beginning our descent.” For a man inside his own head, the Doctor was incredible at conveying body language. Fitz felt waved away, dismissed.

But he persisted.

May in the morning doing Tai-Chi by his hospital bed, silent and peaceful.

Coulson chopping vegetables in the kitchen and humming an old jazz standard.

Trip handing him a beer with that wide, charming, unbelievable smile.

Daisy throwing her popcorn at the television, screaming before the film had even started properly.

Mack holding out a tool to him as he tried to think of its name, patient and kind.

Hunter picking out a shirt for his ill-fated date, grinning ear to ear.

Bobbi telling him to go, she’d cover for him, placing a gun in his hand and a kiss on his cheek.

YoYo muttering _Turtle man_ in his ear as they watched Mack tried to operate the sound system, snickering behind their hands.

Jemma.

_Jemma, Jemma, Jemma –_

“ **Enough.** ”

Jemma’s face when he corrected one of her equations, lemon-faced but with eyes fiery in recognition.

Jemma telling him, tipsy and solemn, that he was her best friend in the whole world.

Jemma smiling at a senior agent with spinach in her teeth and winning them over anyway.

Jemma answering his question before realising he hadn’t asked it yet, laughing with surprised delight.

Jemma leaning over him in the lab, nagging him to hurry up already.

Jemma spotting him across a crowded room and coming alive, radiant and beaming.

Jemma –

The plane had landed.

His mind was silent.

He waited, still but for the thumping in his chest, holding his breath.

Then, tentatively, a deer just out of the headlights, he stood up.

The newspaper man coughed impatiently behind him, kicking him into action. He checked the overhead; no carry-on. Really, that part of his psyche was truly insane. What if they’d lost his luggage?

Triumphant and near-swaggering, he made his way off the plane and through security, blessedly spotting his suitcase despite not remembering having packed it. No one seemed to have questions about its content, thank goodness, but he could only hope there was something more comfortable in it than the obnoxious three-piece suit he was wearing. God, where had the Doctor even _found_ it?

But he was not too concerned. When he finally came out into the bright LA sun he was feeling, if not happy, at least as though maybe there was a possibility of happiness, if he could keep his wits about him.

First things first: call Jemma and explain. Get SHIELD to pick him up and then they could fix it, together, like they always did.

He switched on his phone, tilting back and forth on his heels impatiently, pressing his thumb down to unlock –

It asked for a passcode.

It was asking for a fucking _passcode._

That _bastard._

Okay, fine, he knew Jemma’s number by heart, no problem. Find a payphone and –

“I couldn’t help but notice, before, when you were wasting time with all those little recollections from your pathetic, wasted life, that they were all from before the incident with the gravitonium. How curious.”

_“No.”_

“Oh yes. Sorry for getting your hopes up. I’ve always hated airport security. I thought I’d let you handle it.”

 ** _“No.”_** A family jumped as they passed him, startled. A man heading in the other direction grunted, unimpressed.

“Please don’t start that again, you’re boring me. Deke will be arriving from – eugh – _Silicon Valley_ soon. We need to get to the hotel before his flight comes in.”

Fitz’s hand came up to hail a cab – as though pulled by some invisible, malevolent string.

++

_“If you say one more word against Simmons – ”_

_“And you! You’ve been lying to me! For nearly two years! You made me think I was … that I was normal. That I was safe. Christ, Jemma, you’ve been sharing a bed with me!”_

_“We erased our memory. The team went to fight Talbot and we got in a machine, like the one they used on Coulson – ”_

_“But why would I forget you? Why would I erase Jemma?”_

Jemma pressed pause, then rewind.

_“You’ve been lying to me!”_

Again.

_“You’ve been lying to me!”_

Again, further back –

_“You could have died. I pointed a gun at my own – my own. Oh fuck.”_

“Hey.” Daisy stepped into the room slowly, Disney-wide eyes filled with concern. Slowly, Jemma pulled off her headphones to look at her expectantly.

“We’ve tracked down Deke. He’s just landed in LA. There wasn’t anything in his calendar, but Khan checked his email – he’s been getting messages from some movie producer about serialising his video game?”

“Right.”

“We think Fi – we think it’s a trap, to get him there on his own with the equipment. You know Deke, he’s like a kid at Christmas 24/7. He was probably too excited to realise something was up.”

“Of course.”

“Yeah. Um, so I’ve looked through the code Khan sent over and we’re okay, Simmons. No major damage. He was just trying to build somewhere he could go – ”

“With Aida?”

“What?”

“A place he could go with Aida. Plug himself in and be with her, make the looking glass machine again.”

“I … yeah. We think so. But there’s a strike team already in place, as soon as Deke gets to the meeting, we’ll bring them all in.”

“Fine. Was there anything else?”

“Jemma –”

“Because if not, I really should get back to the recording. Mack wants my analysis as soon as possible.” Jemma turned to face the computer again, replacing her headphones and turning up the volume.

“Okay.” The door closed quietly behind Daisy as she left.

Breathe in; breathe out.

Again.

_“No.”_

_“You’re not here.”_

++

Fitz paced the hotel room floor as steadily as he could. Jetlag combined with the extreme stress of the past 24 hours meant he was running purely on some anxiety-adrenaline hybrid, his fear and confusion stringing him out so that he was wide-awake and wired. He felt incredibly vulnerable, and overwhelmingly lonely.

Lonely, but of course, not alone.

Lurking in the shadowy corner of the room was the Doctor, a parody of malevolence. He would almost seem ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that he was lazily spewing pure hate.

“This is what you wanted. Yes, you tried the coward’s way out to begin with, but it’s all worked out in the end. You can fade quietly away, and Ophelia and I can finally have the happiness you ripped away from us.”

“I won’t let you do that.”

“It’s not a question of letting, Fitz, you know that. Besides, isn’t it easier this way? What’s left for you here, now?”

“My friends. My family.”

“Oh, right, those. Tell me, how do they _really_ feel about you, do you think? After you lied to them. _Tortured_ them. After you waited until they were off saving this mind-numbingly uninspiring world of yours to abandon them, leaving them to clean up the mess you made?”

Fitz paused his pacing to centre himself, then began to move again.

“Come on now, Fitz. Play along. What will happen next? In this heroic fantasy of yours where you stop me – which we both know you can’t and _won’t_ do – what happens then? You go back to SHIELD? Back to Jemma? How will she be able to even look at you?”

“Stop it.”

“No, please, tell me. Tell me how the woman who supposedly loves you, who spent the last two years playing make believe, is going to feel when she sees the real you? When she realises this isn’t some fairy tale where she can wave a magic wand and make you all better? I know you Fitz. I am in your heart, your soul, the very bones of you and oh, I _know_ who you are. And You. Are. Rotted. Through.”

_“Stop. Please.”_

“Fitz, Fitz, Fitz! You don’t _want_ me to stop. You’re desperate to hear this, you always have been. You have been waiting your whole life for someone to see the real you, to tell you the truth. Well I’m here now. There’s no need to hide anymore. I see you, Fitz, and I am here to tell you you are not a good man. You are not worthy of love. You are _nothing_. You are worse than nothing. You’re – ”

A quick, upbeat rat-a-tat-tat came at the door, startling Fitz where he had unconsciously curled himself up into a ball at the foot of the bed.

“Hey! You weren’t answering your phone but the girl at reception sent me straight up. It’s Deke? Deke Shaw? We’ve been emailing?”

Trembling, Fitz stood up.

“Showtime.” The Doctor intoned, disdainful yet triumphant, as Fitz stepped across the room to let Deke in –

“Get down! On the ground, down, now!”

A storm of tac gear and guns. Shouting, barking, pushing him, and above the chaos –

“It’s okay Bobo! We’re helping you! We’re here to help!”

Fitz fell to his knees, sobbing with relief.

++

There was the ride back, stony but for Deke’s furtive attempts at conversation, soon abandoned for anxious looks and the occasional offering of what looked like a cup of bubble tea.

There was the march through the base, shackled and at gun point, past faces old and new down the corridors of the Lighthouse, now fully operational but still dark and dingy.

There was Keller – not his neighbour but a new agent for this new SHIELD – telling him about the updated security features of his cell in almost the same tone he had used to explain that his kitchen unit had a built-in dishwasher.

There was Daisy behind the glass, telling him it was going to be okay, and that wherever he was in there; and she _knew_ he was in there; that he was safe now. That they’d fix it. That she’d missed him.

There was Mack putting down a plate of food and a mug of tea slowly, as though Fitz might bite. Mack, pausing to consider him for a moment, as if thinking of what to say, before leaving without speaking a word.

There were strangers sneaking glances at him as they came past his cell on some flimsy excuse: curious, fearful, excited.

But for a long, long time, there was no Jemma.

He was considering finally giving in to sleep, eyelids heavy with fatigue and feeling, when he sensed her approach. She tugged on his conscious like a thread in a maze, waking him from his reverie to find her the other side of the glass, watching him with a look he did not recognise from all his years of careful study.

He spoke first, voicing cracking after hours of silence, “I thought you might not come.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want me here.”

He did know that look. He’d just never really seen it like this before.

She was scared of him.

He opened his mouth to protest, to soothe her, but the words would not come. For a moment, there was simply silence.

When she spoke again, her voice was cool and steady, “I wanted to apologise. For before. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping you in the dark. But I realise now that that was foolish of me. I’m sorry, Fitz.”

Still he could not respond. He nodded, eyes now fixed on the floor.

“And I also wanted to say, to tell you … I know you’re not yourself, right now. Your blood work came back. I realise you’re not – you’ve not been taking your medication.” She swallowed, splaying her hands in front of her to study them for a moment, “But once you’ve been back on it a little while things should even out. And we’ve found a very good psychologist to help you, a properly trained one, not just...” she trailed off, biting her lip.

Fitz closed his eyes tight as a physical pain hit him, an ache in his chest that threatened to floor him. He had to say – he needed to say –

“But while you recover, I think it’s best I keep my distance.”

He looked up quickly, catching her eye in a horrible moment of panic. Her mouth trembled, revealing a small crack in her resolve.

“I … I’ve … I think I’ve done more harm to you than good. I wanted to protect you, but the way I went about it was selfish. Very selfish. I just couldn’t … I didn’t want to – ” her breath caught shakily as she turned her head away from him, “It doesn’t matter. I just hope, in time, that you can forgive me.”

 _Always_ he thought. _Always._

Another terrible stretch of silence.

“Everyone’s going to take care of you.” Her voice was breaking as she stared down, hard, at the stone floor, “Everyone is going to help you. And I will be here, at the base. I won’t leave. I promise I won’t leave again, Fitz. Not ever.”

But she was stepping away now, breathing hard. She stilled for a moment, meeting his eye once more, “I just won’t come and see you, not while you figure things out. I’ll give you some space.” She tried a weak smile, “A nice break.”

She was watching him expectantly, eyes searching his as they had a thousand times before, ready to find an answer to her question, but he had no strength to give it.

“If that’s what you want?”

He turned away from her, trying to concentrate. He need to say … he needed to tell her not to go. To ask her to stay. He had to tell that he needed her now more than ever, that he didn’t care that she’d lied, as long as she stayed with him.

_Please. Please say something._

“Jemma … “

But when he looked around, she was already gone.

++

They had been in the library a long time. Their thermos of tea had gone cold and the supply of snacks was dwindling, but they continued to work in their well-established, easy silence.

Then he threw his pencil at her.

“Ow – _what?_ ”

“Sorry, I’ve been calling you for a while. Guess my scent-seeker specs _are_ worthy of your attention, hmm?” He was grinning, pleased.

Jemma huffed, putting down her pen to glare at Fitz properly “They need work. And there’s no way we’re calling it the ‘scent-seeker’, that sounds positively creepy.”

“ _We?_ ”

“Yes we,” Jemma said crossly, but a smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth, “unless you want to factor in the individual chemistry of the olfactory sensors yourself? That should only take you a few decades.”

“A few… _oh_ , that’s rich, coming from you. ‘Olfactory chemistry’! My favourite jumper _still_ smells like rotten eggs after your ‘little overestimation’ with the sulfuric acid last month – ”

“Your specifications weren’t clear!”

 _“Ahem.”_ A nearby student librarian coughed, Umbridge-like. FitzSimmons turned to each other, sharing a look of joint derision, but continued their conversation at a quieter volume.

“My specifications were _perfect._ Anyway, that’s not why I was trying to get your attention.” Fitz moved his laptop round so Jemma could see the screen, lunging forward to jam his headphones in her ears.

“Ow, Fitz! I can do it myself! And I thought you were writing up my notes from that Vaughn lecture you slept through?”

“I was. I was just … taking a quick break. Anyway, this is _important._ Pay attention, Simmons.”

Fitz pressed play on the clip. Jemma watched, bemused.

A panda mother and its cub were on screen, the mother munching nonchalantly on some bamboo. And then –

_Achoo!_

Jemma blinked, turning to find Fitz smiling at her, expectantly, with the air of someone who has just bestowed a great gift and is waiting for the gratitude that is their due.

“… it’s some pandas.”

Fitz’s jaw dropped open cartoonishly, but he quickly shut it again as he leant over and pressed replay. Jemma frowned, concentrating hard as the short video started once more.

The same thing happened again, only this time Fitz started laughing when the baby panda sneezed, despite being unable to hear it.

Once he’d recovered, Fitz turned again to Jemma, but she still didn’t understand what he was getting at. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, at a loss.

“The baby panda makes the mum jump, it’s _adorable_ Simmons!” Fitz seemed aghast at her indifference.

“Is it?”

“ _Yes._ Look, watch it again.”

But this time, instead of watching the video, Jemma watched Fitz’s face; the eager anticipation gracing his features morphing into a delighted grin as the cub sneezed on screen.

His glee was childish but entirely endearing, and Jemma felt a sudden wave of affection for her friend. She was struck by the wondrous nature of the universe to place them here, side by side, thousands of miles from where they’d both grown up but still completely at home in each other’s company.

Fitz turned to face her again, grin widening when he saw she was smiling to.

“See? Do you get it now?”

“Yes, I do. I get it now.”

++

She was studying peacefully and listening to music, humming along to some lilting indie folk song, when his cry wrenched through the air, leaving her cold.

“Jem _ma_! I need you, now!”

She moved like lightning, terror pounding in her heart as she bolted into the bedroom to find him, cross-legged and perfectly safe, grinning at her excitedly from a mountain of throw cushions at the head of the bed.

She leant on the doorframe, clutching her heart as she tried to remember how to breathe.

“I thought something was _wrong._ God, Fitz, what is it? Aren't you supposed to be reading my notes on the developments in sensory robotics?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. But this is brilliant, you need to see it.” His eyes were bright and eager, “I was reading your notes, I just … decided to take a quick break. And you won’t _believe_ what I found,” he patted the space next to him buoyantly, “come watch. It’s important.”

Still recovering from her moment of sheer panic, Jemma moved to sit down on the bed, accepting the arm Fitz lifted to snug her closer to him. He dropped a haphazard kiss to the top of her head, the length of his smile pressing into her hair.

She was curious about this sudden, vibrant change – had he made a breakthrough? She willed herself not to get her hopes up, scooting over to see the screen properly as Fitz pressed play.

A panda mother and its cub were on screen, the mother munching nonchalantly on some bamboo. And then –

_Achoo!_

Jemma’s heart swelled as she fought to stop from crying, overwhelmed with nostalgia, with joy, with sadness – _love_.

Fitz was beaming at her, “Isn’t it fantastic? That sneeze is just ridiculous.”

She beamed back and leant up to kiss him: a brief, fierce brand.

“It’s wonderful. Play it again.”

++

A panda mother and its cub were on screen, the mother munching nonchalantly on some bamboo. And then –

_Achoo!_

Alone in her cold bed at the Lighthouse, tears streaming silently, Jemma pressed replay.

++

Fitz wanted to press his hands through to the back of his skull to alleviate the ache. He rolled over in bed, trying to ignore that voice –

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? It’s what you’ve been planning on doing all these months. Protect Simmons, you kept saying. _Leave_.”

_Stop it._

“Really, I thought you’d be happy about this. I know I am. It makes things so much easier.”

Fitz frowned, thinking hard.

_She stopped you. They’ll have disabled your Framework code by now._

“Disabled the – oh _for the love of –_ really? You really think that was my great master plan? Come on, you’re smarter than that at least.”

A memory, slithering and sinister, was making its way to the forefront of his mind.

_You … it wasn’t the Framework. You weren’t trying to reboot the Framework. You wanted to be captured._

“That’s right. Now, what’s our next move?”

_The gravitonium device._

“Very good, Fitz. We’ll make a man of you yet. We just need to lay low for a few days, play along with their little charade, and once we know where that gormless giant’s put it, we can break out and get to work.”

_You want the gravitonium device._

“Oh, keep up. I want what’s _in_ the device.” The Doctor sounded almost happy.

Fitz felt a single tear roll down his cheek, a mercy.

“Three monoliths; reality to bend to our whims. We truly will be gods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. If you haven't seen the iconic YouTube classic 'Sneezing baby panda' please do so immediately.
> 
> x


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His and Jemma’s rules dated back to their teens and ranged from the ingenious yet simple original rule of no waking up the other before 6am (unless they had a really, really excellent idea) to the great crumbs-on-the-sofa clause made when renting their first apartment. In more recent years, they'd included some less practical resolutions, his favourite of which being the ‘save time and water by showering together’ motion passed in the summer of 2016. This new rule was promising.

They had fought that morning, before she’d left with the others on the Zephyr. It seemed like such a silly thing to focus on now but she kept picturing that day in her mind, over and over like a loop in time.

Despite having been taken out of his cell to fend off the ravengers and then to help her work on saving Coulson and prepping the gravitonium, Fitz had locked himself back up and refused to come with her and the rest of the team to Chicago to stop Talbot.

“You need to be there,” she’d said, trying to keep her voice calm, “if this doesn’t work and the Earth is destroyed, we need you with us.”

“It’s not safe, Jemma.” He’d repeated, quietly, not meeting her eye. His fingers were spinning the ring on his left hand

“None of this is safe! None of it is. And staying locked up when you could come with us, when you could help, it’s – ”

“Madness?” Fitz cut in, bitterly, looking up finally to give her a hard stare, “That’s the thing, Jemma, I’m not stable. And putting me in a situation where I could … where I might…” he tailed off, looking down again, “I’m not risking that.”

“You were doing what needed to be done, we’ve all had to make hard decisions,” she blinked wetly, attempting to maintain some sense of control, “and if we’re going to get through this, we need to stick together.”

Fitz breathed out a cold laugh.

“And how does Daisy feel about that? Or Mack?”

“They … they’ll come around, eventually. And they know we need all hands on deck right now.”

But Fitz was shaking his head even as she spoke, a bitter smile on his face.

“I’ve told you before, they shouldn’t forgive me. None of you should,” he looked at her again, his eyes, so beloved to her, lingering for a moment on her covered midriff where her wound was still healing, “I don’t deserve to be part of the team anymore. And I certainly don’t deserve to be – ”

“We’re not talking about that again.” She said, firm and fierce, “Especially not now. We have to go, Fitz. And we need you. _I_ need you. If we lose this fight…”

“You know we live long enough to make it to the future, we’re invincible, remember?” His tone was scornful, tinged with anger, “Deke proves that. We’re stuck in a loop. You’ll see me again.”

She closed her eyes tight, clenching and unclenching her hands, “I can’t live in a world without you in it, Fitz, but we have to go now. _Please._ ”

“Just go.” He turned away, shoulders up, as though to block her out, “I’ll see you after.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

His head was cast downwards, a force of tension and fear.

She stared for a last long moment, but she had to go.

++

Once the battle was won, there had been a number of terrible, blissful hours in which she hadn’t known.

First there had been Coulson to stabilise, then Daisy to see to, and then Mack had come in bellowing, a broken May in his arms. They had flown back to Lighthouse at breakneck speed, but then she’d had to head straight into surgery, a shaking Piper assisting her as she fought to save May’s life.

She had reluctantly allowed Coulson to go to May’s side, afterwards, to hold her hand. As she watched him, forehead creased in so much pain, she had felt her own phantom limb ache, the space that normally held Fitz unbearably empty. So she’d left Coulson there and headed to his cell.

But of course, he had not been there. He had not been anywhere. A manhunt had begun, her frantic, the others hard-mouthed and wary, although they had blessedly held back from voicing their suspicions.

And then –

The note.

_Jemma,_

_I’m sorry. You’ll be safe now._

_Fitz_

Piper had helped her again as she had wheeled him down corridors towards the lab, taking her barked, furious orders with infinite patience and staying up with her as she ran test after test, scan after scan.

By the time she’d realised just what he’d done, she was too exhausted to cry. She had simply sat, staring at Fitz’s unconscious body, waiting for the numbness to fade so that she could work out what to do next.

She did not notice Piper leaving, nor Daisy entering, but suddenly she was by her side.

“Is he going to wake up?”

Jemma nodded slowly.

“And when he does?”

She shrugged, closing her eyes.

“Okay,” Daisy said, measured and soothing, “well, he’s been on the phone pretty much non-stop since we landed, but I have managed to get a bit of facetime with the new Director. And we have an idea.”

When Jemma did not respond, she continued, “It looks like SHIELD’s going legit again. Sans the PR circus we had with Mace, but still. It means we’re not going to be the most-wanted anymore,” she hesitated for a moment before continuing, “and that means we can take him wherever you want to go. Any medical facility you think you need for … whatever this is. And we can get him back.”

Jemma stayed silent, trying to focus on her heartbeat, to make sure it was still there.

“Simmons?”

“Is that what you want?”

“What?”

Jemma rounded on her friend, something twisting inside her, a monster eager to lash out at anything – anyone – “24 hours ago you were desperate to be rid of him. Telling him you hated him, that he was a monster, that you’d never forgive him. What, now that he’s taken your words to heart you want him back?”

“ _Jemma_. I didn’t mean – ”

“Didn’t mean it? Didn’t _mean_ it? _You quaked him into a wall._ You told me, repeatedly, that he needed to be locked up, that he wasn’t safe. I kept trying to explain that the only person he was a danger to was himself but you wouldn’t _listen_ and now – and now…” She broke off, shaking.

“Jemma, please – “

But whatever Daisy had to say, Jemma didn’t want to hear it. She stood up and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

++

Hours later, after she had made calls to get Fitz transferred to a brain trauma unit, begrudgingly accepting Mack’s help (although she could not really look at him, either), there was knock at the door.

“I’m busy.” She called, continuing her careful folding of one of Fitz’s jumper into a worn suitcase. They needed a new one; she thought, maybe for their honeymoon, they could – she closed her eyes against the wave of pain that hit her, but they snapped back open as the door creaked.

“I _said_ – sir! What are you doing up?” Coulson stood in the doorway, a strange sight out of his suit and instead in soft pyjamas, his face pale from exertion.

“I need to talk to you. May I sit?”

She nodded, hurrying forward to help him to the bed. He looked around the room slowly, pausing for a moment on the photo on the bedside table, taken a million years ago in Peru.

“You know, when I met you guys, that first time at Sci-Ops, I thought you were the sweetest kids.” He smiled ruefully, “It’s funny, all my years as a spy you think I’d be better at first impressions, but I was so wrong about you two.”

“Sir?”

“I knew you were strong, sure. That’s why I asked you to join the team, it’s one of the reasons why May pointed me in your direction. But strong doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He winced as he breathed in but waved Jemma away when she moved to help. After a moment, he began to speak again.

“I wish I could tell you I’m sorry, Jemma, for dragging you into all of this. For all you two have been through. But I’m not sorry. I am so damn proud. You two aren’t just strong, you’re unstoppable.” He moved his hand to place it on top of hers, ignoring the tear that dropped onto it as Jemma continued to listen, “The things you two have done for this team, the impossible things you are willing to do for each other…” He breathed again, meeting her eye with a look of determination.

“This is just another impossible thing. He’s in there, Agent Fitz-Simmons,” his fingers curled, squeezing her own lightly, “so get to work.”

++

Far be it for Jemma Fitz-Simmons, goody-two shoes extraordinaire, to disobey one, final order from a boss she loved so fiercely. And it had been hard to do as he’d said – excruciatingly, heartbreakingly, spirit-shatteringly so – but she had eventually formed a fully-fledged plan.

She repaired her relationship with the team and started a new one with a man she considered her husband, but who thought she was a total stranger.

And this Fitz was almost the same as he had been in his teens: not without trauma, but much lighter than he had grown in their years with SHIELD. His smile came easier, his jokes were sillier, his heart more open than it had seemed in years _._

It took its toll on her; there was so much devotion she had had to bottle up, and times where it felt as though there was no reason to hide it. On occasion she had wondered, wryly, if it was how _he_ had felt before the bottom of the ocean, the first real sacrifice they’d made for each other.

But she would not make the same mistakes again. She would love him and love him until he loved her back.

And miraculously (although, she conceded privately to herself, perhaps inevitably), he did.

He fell in love over bad hospital food and TV re-runs and long conversations late into the night. He never once had to risk his life or fight an impossible fight to be with her but she still held back, turning away from the look of adoration so familiar yet so foreign on the face of her newer, easier Fitz.

 _Keep your distance_ , she told herself. She was, after all, expending valuable SHIELD resources and potentially placing herself and fellow agents at risk to re-ingratiate Fitz slowly, without triggering a mental collapse. She needed to be patient. To wait.

But then: Enoch. Enoch back on Earth and bewildered by its continued existence, bringing news of a doppelgänger corpse, a paradox violently resolving itself.

She did not tell Fitz’s mum about it. The woman had been through enough and Jemma could not bear to tell her that she had let her down once more, that she had lost her son again.

After a small and ultimately confusing memorial service she had sat and stared at the cool grey, wall of her ( _their_ ) room and for a moment tried to do as Fitz had done, what felt like – and indeed, in some ways, was – many lifetimes ago: she tried to summon his presence like a conscience. She waited and waited for him to appear, to quip or chide or caress, but he never came.

They were on the tip of her tongue, all the things she needed to say about the fourth dimension and the nature of the universe and what this meant for their understanding of it and the possible multiverses and how very lonely she was without him. If only he would just _show up._

She found herself crying, truly sobbing, for the first time since before the Framework, the last time she had thought she’d really lost him. It was too much, it had always been too much, she could not hold back, she could not be patient – she needed, she had to have – she _must –_

Then the months in Glasgow, the seemingly limitless time they had spent living a life of simple luxury. Yes, occasionally she was needed for this mission or that, but mostly there had just been her and Fitz, together in a way they had never had the chance to be before. They cracked jokes and traded kisses and never had to wait for the next alarm, the next warning, the terrors and tribulations that come from a love that has been put on trial so many times.

Really, they had been through _so many trials_ and endured so much pain, could she truly be blamed for getting carried away, for letting her guard down? Could she not be forgiven the moments spent basking in a love without complications, a happiness she had surely earnt in all her years of service? Must she be punished for taking this gift?

Yes, yes of course she must. This is why she was here now.

They had fought that morning before she’d left.

Did he remember that? Did he remember what happened after? The why of him entering the machine?

The recording that had come at the price of a poisoned Hunter (who thankfully had regained consciousness, but not firm control of his bowels, and seemed to think Jemma needed regular updates on this little side effect) suggested that perhaps he had.

She glanced up at the clock, worrying her lip. Fitz was in with his psychologist now, hopefully giving answers to these questions.

The highly esteemed Dr Samson was an ex-colleague of Bruce Banner and so was well-suited to cases of an unusual nature. He seemed nice enough, but she’d not been keen to spend too much time around him (or anyone else) in the two days since Fitz’s capture, some of the longest days of her life.

He’d had a day to ‘rest’ and be observed, now he was in a comprehensive psychological evaluation, then tomorrow his interrogation would begin. Jemma had not and would not be part of any of it – up close, at least.

“Piper’s agreed to do the talking, but I need you to give her a basic structure. What do we need to ask him?” Mack had demanded, not unkindly, but she’d flinched anyway. She knew he must be angry with her, furious even, for her rashness.

Piper had been deemed the best option for the interview on the basis that she had no direct history with the Doctor, so would hopefully incite the least guilt (or rage, dependent on who she was talking to) and would be able to get some straight answers.

But Jemma has spent near-on two years telling everyone she was becoming a true expert on Fitz’s psyche, using her books and brains as a shield to justify what was ultimately a reckless plan, and now she was having to deal with the consequences.

Her pen hovered over the blank page:

_Three weeks ago, I woke up to find you watching me and you told me you were counting my breaths. You told me you’d found yourself suddenly awake and so grateful, so happy that I was there, that you’d just had to have a moment to take it all in. You asked me if that made you sound creepy and I said I understood and promised you it didn’t and then we kissed and we laughed and you smelt like sleep and spice and you told me you loved me against my lips, and you were smiling and still laughing and it was dark outside, so we drifted back to sleep just like that. Was he there, then? Did you mean everything you said, or has it just been an act? Do you love me still? Could you?_

She read back what she’d written, let herself tremble for a moment, then ripped the paper away from the pad and began again:

_(1) How long has the subject been having auditory hallucinations._

++

“I’m not sure.” Fitz replied to the table, unable to look at Piper.

“Okay. Is that not sure as in you can’t physically remember, or it’s been so long it’s hard to put a date on it?”

“Um, maybe a bit of both,” Fitz rubbed his hands over his face, “and I think maybe there was some time where I wasn’t aware that I was hearing them.”

Piper leant forward; he could sense her carefully coiled curiosity, “’Them’… that’s The Doctor and Jemma right? Like a devil and angel thing?”

Fitz looked up in spite of himself, confused, “What?”

“You know, like the devil and angel on your shoulder? You never watch _Looney Tunes_ as a kid?”

Piper was _smiling_. It was making Fitz feel disorientated, dizzy, like the moment after getting off a rollercoaster, Jemma bouncing at his side, bizarre adrenaline junkie she was (in a controlled, carefully researched environment). An odd bird, that one, but then she always treated him to his favourite funfair snacks and let him explain the physics of each ride even though she probably understood it better than he did secretly, her eyes sparkling as –

“Fitz?” He started, catching Piper’s own wide, gentle eyes as she studied him carefully, “Where’d you go?”

He felt a flush creeping down from his ears, “Sorry. I get distracted easily,” something rolled in his stomach, “probably another side effect of how – of what I – the machine.” He finished lamely, swallowing heavily, but Piper simply carried on watching him.

“Memories just…” he gestured with his hands, trying to convey the wild directions his brain would take him in, feeling slightly desperate.

“It’s okay.” Piper said, finally, “I shouldn’t have gone all Bugs Bunny on you. Let’s carry on, shall we?” She looked back down at the file in front of her, causing Fitz’s heart to thump; he knew that handwriting, who’d written these questions, though he had not seen her in three days.

Piper was looking at him again.

“Sorry?”

“How persistent are the hallucinations…” Her eyes flickered behind him, as if expecting someone to appear, “can you hear them now? Or see them?”

“No.” He said resolutely, resisting to temptation to turn and look himself, “Not since I got here. Look, I told all this to Dr Samson yesterday. The last time I saw … _him …_ was in the hotel room where SHIELD found me.”

“Right,” Piper said slowly, “but you also told him you had another memory blank – correct?”

“There’s a period of time I think I’m missing,” he was trying not to grit his teeth, to let his irritation show, “between seeing, ah, Dr Simmons, and going to sleep. Samson said I looked restless on the tape?”

Piper nodded, frowning slightly.

“Well Jem – Simmons should be able to tell if my movements are synonymous with one of my previous episodes. What does she think?”

Piper moved to carefully look down at the file again, her face closing in on itself. It gave her a sudden striking resemblance to May, but of course, May had trained her, was her CO.

Actually, where _was_ May? He hadn’t seen her yet. He wondered if she was still angry at him – they had had words the morning of the fight against Talbot, and he’d said some things…

Piper disrupted his reverie once more; “That’s classified Fitz, I’m sorry. But I can tell you everyone is doing everything they can to help you. And that includes these questions. I know you’ve probably gone over most of it already, but we just need to re-tick some boxes, okay?”

Fitz closed his eyes but nodded for Piper to continue. He heard her flipping through pages, clearly looking for a new tact to try out.

“When did you become aware of Shaw Industries?” She read.

“I can’t remember.” He sighed, reopening his eyes, “Everything’s jumbled up. I remember my life from _before,_ I remember after – I even remember remembering, but all that stuff I did, the coding…“ he looked to the camera in corner of the room, trying to choose the right words, “I didn’t know I was doing all of that. I didn’t know I was lying or hiding things from the people around me. And I didn’t know that they were… withholding certain truths, either.”

Piper’s eyes widened in understanding, “Although I appreciate why they were doing that.” He added hurriedly, “And now – now that I’m here, now that I’m back on my medication we can all fix it. Together.”

For a moment, Piper looked torn, as though something in his statement had set her adrift, but then her features hardened again.

“That’s a nice sentiment Fitz, really, and it’s what we all want. But I’m going to need more from you. Shaw Industries has been in the news a whole lot, and Simmons and the rest of us have been deliberately placing information in front of you for over a year, so it's likely you heard about Deke from us. Now, _think._ When did you first become aware of Shaw Industries?”

++

Two gruelling hours later, Piper left looking as exhausted as Fitz felt, promising to be back to continue her questioning at some point in the near feature and letting him know his dinner would be arriving soon.

“Fine.” Fitz had simply said, brow-beaten, “Fine.”

Now he had been left alone again with only his own thoughts for company, though he could not trust that that was really the case. There was a part of him he was not consciously aware of, possibly pulling the strings at that very moment, or quietly corroding his mind. It made him feel like a helpless creature being stalked, weak and alone, regardless of the thick walls and countless security measures in place to keep him (and those around him) safe.

And he was sure there was something he was missing, that they were _all_ missing. Something about The Doctor’s foiled grand master plan seemed so … messy _._ As repulsed as he was by that part of himself, Fitz could allow that he had at least some understanding of it, and the loose ends were completely out of character.

If only Jemma would come and see him. He could bounce theories off her, talk it out, let her into the chaos of his mind to sort it through and smooth out the creases.

But no. She was right to stay away. He did not deserve her saving him, not again.

Reaching this conclusion made him feel, not for the first time since he’d been locked in his cell, an overwhelming urge to cry – to hit something – to tear out his very heart. But again, this was a storm it seemed likely only Jemma would be capable of tempering.

He had so many memories now, lifetimes in and out of the Framework; recollections from the future, a different planet, through space and in a happy little flat in Glasgow; some all too clear to see and some lost to him, and the one constant was Jemma saving him, over and over.

On their wedding night, in the small hours of what could have been the morning (though the hours they’d been gifted likely did not coincide with the rising and setting of the sun, what with the world threatening to end for the umpteenth time) they had whispered promises to one another.

“I meant it,” he’d told her, his finger trailing a scar on her back like a road on a map, “I don’t think we should ever leave each other’s sides ever again.”

“I know, I told you, I feel the same way.” Jemma poked his bare ribs gently, making him smile, “And we won’t, Fitz, not if I can help it.”

“I fear for anyone who gets in your way,” he moved his hand to brush through her hair, long loosened from its delicate wedding-do (“ _May_ did it!” she’d told him earlier, giggling with delight), “I’ve known you nearly half my life and I’ve seen what happens when you don’t get what you want. It’s terrifying stuff.”

She laughed, fingers moving to walk a path up the crease of his elbow, “Lucky you’ve got me on side then. And you’ll need my reign of terror, what with the cosmos cursing us and all…”

“ _Jemma._ ” he groaned, but a thought occurred to him as she cackled in his arms, his embarrassment turning to glee. He shifted so they were face to face, something in his eyes turning Jemma immediately solemn.

He smiled, cupping her jaw in his hands and placing a tender kiss to her forehead before bracing himself to speak.

“You know, I realized something recently. The universe can't stop us. We have crossed galaxies, we’ve travelled through time, we survived the bottom of the Atlantic … just so we could be together. Now, a love like that, that is stronger than _any_ curse. And you and I, we are unstoppable together.”

Jemma’s eyes had filled with tears as he’d spoken but she choked out a watery laugh when he’d finished, nodding fervently in agreement before closing the small space between them to kiss him passionately.

Her mouth moved against his with a sort of insatiable intent, making it clear she was ready for another round of nuptial consummation, but though the temptress swirl of her tongue against his was almost irresistible, his desire to prove a point won out.

He broke away from her – just – and tried to remember why exactly he’d thought that stopping the embrace was a good idea, but he managed to pant out “That was it. That was what I said when I proposed.”

Jemma froze where she’d been about to lunge in again, eyes crinkling in confusion.

“What?”

He grinned cheekily, “I told you I proposed first. Six months in prison, then 74 years cryogenically frozen preparing that speech and then you couldn’t even hear me! And yet _even now_ you laugh at me for saying we’re cursed.”

Jemma still looked confused, so he shook her slightly, grin widening, “Doesn’t matter anyway, since you popped the question straight after. Great minds and that.”

He tried to swoop in to pick up on Jemma’s previous trail of thought and get back to the business of wedding-nighting, but she ducked his kiss, her expression akin to wonder.

“Jemma?”

“You... “ She shook her head, “just...”she gave up and instead kissed him again, hard, first on the lips and then further up, over his cheeks and nose and his eyelids, bathing him in her adoration. Her actions summoned the ghost of another declaration, a darker, less hopeful one, and banished it soundly.

When she was satisfied, she leant back, considering him.

“Nearly half our lives.” She said, her tone tinged with awe, “I could never live without you, you know that don’t you? You _do_ deserve me. Deserve this.” She moved to clasp his hand, raising it so he could see their rings glinting, “We make each other unstoppable. We always have.”

Fitz felt tears of his own threatening to rise up but they were joyful, incandescent, wondrous tears. In the past few years, through all the pain and suffering, he had always held a golden nugget of hope for this moment, to be able to say these words, and now…

“Well said, wife.” He murmured, tapping Jemma’s ring against his own.

“Why thank you, husband.” Jemma re-joined, gracefully moving from sincerity back into their easy humour, but he sensed she wasn’t quite finished yet; “And actually I was hoping, while we are both being so eloquent and amenable, that I might take this opportunity to propose a new rule.”

“Oh?” Fitz raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

His and Jemma’s rules dated back to their teens and ranged from the ingenious yet simple original rule of no waking up the other before 6am (unless they had a really, _really_ excellent idea) to the great crumbs-on-the-sofa clause made when renting their first apartment. In more recent years, they'd included some less practical resolutions, his favourite of which being the ‘save time and water by showering together’ motion passed in the summer of 2016. This new rule was promising.

“We make it official. About never leaving each other’s side.” Fitz opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Jemma pre-empted him, “I mean, obviously not _always_. I don’t think we should ever keep secrets from each other, but I’m happy for whatever means it takes you twenty minutes to use the loo to remain a mystery. But if – _when_ the next danger comes.” She paused, swallowing, her eyes boring into his own, “We face it together. No splitting up. No getting lost. No far-flung adventures to save one another. We fight it side-by-side.”

Fitz smiled, ignoring the stranger tightening in his chest at her statement, hope and fear mixing dangerously.

“That,” he told her solemnly, “is an excellent rule.”

Jemma beamed back, her eyes leaving his face for a moment to dart quickly downwards to the area below his navel, mischief shadowing her next words, “I’m glad you agree. Shall we shake on it?”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” He growled, and finally dived back in to continue his mission to fill their stolen moment’s peace with laughter, sweet-nothings and burning, heady moans.

That rule was not the first to be broken.

He’d still left crumbs on the sofa and Jemma would wake insanely early and get him up seemingly out of sheer boredom. And as wonderful as the water saving shower idea was, they rarely had the opportunity to indulge it, but then none of those rules had really mattered.

Leaving each other’s side, that mattered. That mattered more than anything, and she had broken that rule.

But then again, so had he.

But those times couldn’t be helped, surely? Those times had been necessary. He had been trying to _save_ her, to protect her and this, now –

The silence in his cell was broken, albeit quietly, by Simmons’ reproachful voice.

“You weren’t trying to save me when you erased your memory. You left. Really left. You gave up on us.”

She stood in the corner, arms crossed in a familiar defensive self-embrace. She looked impossibly young. She caught him staring at her and gave him a terrible smile:

“So much for unstoppable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Apologies for the long delay between chapters, my actual job and life suddenly became hectic. Next chapter will be sooner I swear.
> 
> Who else is stupidly excited for the new season to start tomorrow?


End file.
